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B. L T. S. 

Ace. No, 

The Integration 
of the Personality 






Translated by Stanley Dell 




First published in England 1940 
Reprinted 1941 
Reprinted 1944 
Reprinted 1946 

Printed in Great Britain by 
Low* and Brydonc Printer* Limited, London, 







The Material 96 

The Method 98 

Dreams: First Series 102 

The Mandala Symbolism 127 

Dreams: Second Series 130 






The Integration 
of the Personality 


The Meaning of Individuation 

The chapters in this volume were originally written 
as lectures given at the Eranos Meeting at Ascona, Switzer- 
land. A number of scholars from different fields of knowl- 
edge meet there annually to discuss certain topics of 
human interest. My contributions represent the psycho- 
logical aspect of the problems under discussion, and turn 
upon a question of peculiar interest — the so-called process 
of individuation. 

I will try to explain the term "individuation” as 
simply as possible. By it I mean the psychological process 
that makes of a human being an "individual” — a unique, 
indivisible unit or “whole man.” In the past, it has been 
generally assumed that consciousness — or the sum total of 
representations, ideas, emotions, perceptions, and other men- 
tal contents which the ego acknowledges — is equal to the 
psychological "whole” of an individual. But nowadays the 
rapidly increasing knowledge of phenomena that can be ex- 
plained only on the hypothesis of unconscious mental proc- 
esses has made us doubt whether the ego and its contents 
are really identical with the "whole.” If unconscious processes 
exist at all, they must surely belong to the totality of the 
individual, even though they form no part of the conscious 
ego. If they were a part of the ego, they would be con- 
scious, because anything directly connected with the ego is 
conscious; consciousness is by definition the relationship be- 
tween the ego and the various mental contents. So-called 
unconscious phenomena are those that have no connection 



with the ego. For this reason the ego usually denies their ex- 
istence, and yet they reveal themselves in an individual’s 
behaviour. A careful observer can easily see evidence of 
them, although the individual himself is blissfully unaware 
of the fact that he is exhibiting his most secret thoughts, or 
even something he has never consciously thought. 

Only prejudice could lead anyone to suppose that, be- 
cause he has never entertained a certain thought, it cannot 
be a content of his psyche. This might be the case if, as I 
said before, the psychic totality were identical with con- 
sciousness. But there is plenty of evidence to show that con- 
sciousness is far from covering the whole of the psyche. 
Many things happen semi-consciously, and an incalculable 
number of occurrences may even be entirely uncon- 
scious. The careful investigation of dual — or multiple — per- 
sonality, of dissociation in nervous and mental diseases, and 
of approximately similar phenomena in normal people has 
yielded a wealth of data. I cannot imagine how one would 
set about explaining such phenomena without the hypothesis 
of the unconscious, a concept which acknowledges the fact 
that things live and function in the psyche just as if they 
were conscious and while the ego is unaware of their ex- 
istence. For further information on this point the reader may 
wish to consult the works of Pierre Janet, Theodore Flour- 
noy, Sigmund Freud, Morton Prince, and others. 

At all events, medical psychology has been profoundly 
impressed with the number and importance of the uncon- 
scious processes that give rise to functional symptoms and 
even organic disturbances. These facts have undermined the 
view that the ego expresses the psychic totality. It has be- 
come obvious that the ‘'whole” must needs include, besides 
consciousness, the field of unconscious events, and must con- 
stitute a sum total embracing both. The ego, once the mon- 
arch of this totality, is dethroned. It remains merely the 
centre of consciousness. 


We may well ask whether the unconscious part of the 
psyche itself has a centre or not. I should hardly dare to 
assume that there is such a thing in the unconscious as a 
ruling principle analogous to the ego. Actually, everything 
points to the contrary. If there were such a centre, we should 
expect almost regular signs of its existence — for instance, 
intentional and purposeful opposition. Cases of dual person- 
ality would be frequent occurrences, and not rare curiosi- 

Unconscious phenomena usually appear chaotic and 
unsystematic. For instance, dreams — one of the most fre- 
quent manifestations of the unconscious — show no apparent 
order, nor any tendency to systematization such as might 
be expected from a personal entity endowed with conscious- 
ness of itself. 

Neither the philosophers nor the more modern explorers 
of the unconscious have ventured to assume the existence 
of an unconscious equivalent to the conscious ego. On the 
contrary, such philosophers as C. G. Carus and Eduard von 
Hartmann treat the unconscious as a cosmic principle, some- 
thing like a universal mind without any trace of personality 
or of ego-consciousness. Modern scientists regard the un- 
conscious as a psychic function below the threshold of con- 
sciousness, too feeble and too dim to be perceived. In oppo- 
sition to the philosophers, they are inclined to derive all 
subliminal phenomena from consciousness and its contents. 
Janet speaks of consciousness as occasionally being too feeble 
to maintain the connection between certain processes and 
the ego. Freud, on the other hand, rather prefers the idea 
that there exist conscious factors that repress certain tenden- 
cies on account of their painful, or otherwise incompatible, 
character. There is much to be said in favour of both theo- 
ries, for there are plenty of cases where a debility of con- 
sciousness causes distinct functions or contents to drop below 
the threshold and become subliminal; or where disagree- 



able contents are obviously repressed or forgotten; or where 
debility and repression together account for losses to the 

It is obvious that such careful observers as Janet and 
Freud would not have formed theories in which the un- 
conscious is mainly derived from conscious sources had they 
discovered a trace of independent personality or autono- 
mous volition. According to both theories, the unconscious 
is little else than psychic material that happens to lack the 
quality of ‘ consciousness, though it need not do so, and that 
differs in no other way from conscious contents. 

If it were true that the unconscious consists of nothing 
but contents incidentally deprived of consciousness, then it 
would be preposterous — or at least unnecessarily meticulous 
— to worry about the question of whether the ego represents 
the whole of the psychical individual, or not. A normal ego 
could, and would, adequately embody the "whole,” since its 
losses through unconsciousness would be trifles, and of sig- 
nificance only in cases of neuroses. 

The situation, however, is not so simple. Both theories 
are based chiefly upon experience with cases of neurosis. 
Neither of the authors had any psychiatric experience . 1 If 
they had, they would certainly have been impressed with 
the fact that the unconscious displays certain contents that 
are utterly different from those of consciousness; such 
strange ones, indeed, that nobody can understand them, 
neither the patient himself not his doctors. The doctors agree 
that he is crazy, and he agrees too, if his consciousness be 
still capable of realizing the uncanny incomprehensibility 
of the phenomena that invade his mind. He is clearly en- 
gulfed by a flood of' thoughts and experiences that have 
never before been in his mind, nor in those of his doctors, 
nor in any other normal mind. That is why we call him 
crazy: we cannot understand his ideas. We understand 
something only when we already possess the necessary prem- 


ises. But the premises of the patient’s ideas are just as re- 
mote from our consciousness as from the patient’s mind 
before he became crazy. 

As a matter of fact, there are certain insane ideas which 
cannot be derived from the contents of any conscious mind. 
Certainly they are not normal contents incidentally deprived 
of consciousness, like something forgotten, repressed, or 
habitually neglected. They are quite obviously the products 
of an autonomous, independent mental functioning never 
before known or experienced. They are thoroughly different 
from the products of a neurotic mind, which no responsible 
observer would judge to be crazy. The neurotic complex is 
always within the reach of consciousness and is, therefore, 
capable of reintegration into consciousness. Except in the 
case of a neurosis that is an indirect expression of a latent 
psychosis, the revelation of the unconscious neurotic contents 
will never produce a psychosis, simply because they are hu- 
manly understandable. The unconscious material of a psy- 
chosis is not understandable . 2 

No matter what the causality (aitiology) of a psychosis, 
its very existence implies a condition in which certain men- 
tal activities appear spontaneously out of the unconscious. 
They cannot be derived from consciousness, for consciousness 
offers no premises that can explain or assimilate the utterly 
strange and abnormal ideas. Neurotic contents can be inte- 
grated with no fatal injury to the ego. Insane ideas, on the 
contrary, cannot be assimilated. They remain inaccessible 
and more or less overgrow the ego-consciousness. They even 
show a marked tendency to draw the ego into their own 
"system,” thus treating the ego as the latter is supposed to 
treat the unconscious. 

The existence of such cases is not infrequent, and proves 
irrefutably that, under certain conditions, the unconscious 
is capable of taking over the role of the ego. The result of 
this exchange is chaos and destruction because the uncon- 


scious is not a second personality with an organised and cen- 
tralized functioning, but on the contrary an apparently 
irrational and paradoxical coexistence of mental processes. 
So, while the psychosis demonstrates the possible existence 
of an autonomous unconscious mind, one should not be 
satisfied with the verdict that any form of unconscious au- 
tonomy is nothing but insanity. 

We have known for a long time that the mentality of 
the neurotic is basically normal, though marred on the 
surface by exaggeration and disproportion. In other words, 
a neurotic is normal apart from' certain anomalies. Normal 
psychology has gleaned a wealth of information from the 
study and analysis of neuroses, for they exhibit certain 
normal traits in such exaggeration that one cannot fail to 
notice them. 

In spite of the utter strangeness of mental behaviour in 
psychoses, we may venture the same assertion as to the study 
of the insane. Nothing produced by the human mind is 
completely outside our psychic range. Even the craziest idea 
must derive from something within the human mind, from 
some hidden root or premise. Without definitive evidence 
to the contrary, we cannot suppose certain minds to contain 
elements that other minds do not contain at all. We cannot 
assume that the unconscious has the faculty of becoming 
autonomous only in certain minds predestined later to be- 
come insane. It* is very much more likely that the autonomy 
peculiar to the unconscious is a more or less general pos- 
sibility. Insanity is merely the manifestation of a hidden, yet 
generally existent, condition. . 

Of course, the lunatic is an individual completely over- 
come by the uncbnscious. The same condition may exist to 
a less degree in the case of a person whom we cannot char- 
acterize as lunatic. We then have to deal with a man who is 
only partially overcome by his unconscious. He is not en- 
tirely beside himself,” but only partially or metaphorically. 



Or, the condition may be temporary. Such a case can be a 
matter of ordinary panic or some other emotional upset. 
Ini’ such a state of violent emotion one says or does things 
out of proportion, things one regrets afterward when reason 
is restored. Even the most normal individual is not proof 
against this danger. Under suitable conditions he will “jump 
out of his skin” and temporarily imitate the insane, with 
more or less success. Not much is needed; love, hatred, joy, 
or sadness is often strong enough to reverse the relation be- 
tween the ego and the unconscious. 

On such occasions, strange ideas may seize upon other- 
wise sound individuals. Groups and societies, even whole 
peoples, may have seizures of a similar kind; these are mental 
epidemics. In such a case only malevolent critics speak of a 
psychosis, while others speak of an "ism.” The ordinary 
lunatic is generally a harmless, isolated case; since everyone 
sees that something is wrong with him, he is quickly taken 
care of. But the unconscious infections of groups of so-called 
normal people are more subtle and far more dangerous,, al- 
though they derive from the autonomy of unconscious proc- 
esses just as much as does insanity. 

Ordinary common sense always imagines itself to be 
anywhere but in the immediate vicinity of the lunatic asy- 
lum. Yet common sense consists of the minds of average 
people, who have no idea that their consciousness may easily 
be invaded, in parts at least, by a strange and dangerous 
unconscious activity. It is one of the most ridiculous illusions 
of civilized man that the “perils of the soul” have entirely 
disappeared along with primitive superstitions. Even the 
superstitions have not disappeared from any civilized nation 
as a whole. They have only changed their names, and often 
not even that. The clan of uprooted intellectual highbrows 
usually goes on believing in permanent and universal en- 
lightenment. That technical progress and social improve- 


ments do not mean psychological differentiation or a higher 
level of consciousness is a lesson that we are unwilling to 
learn. The enormous increase of technical facilities only serves 
to occupy the mh.J with all sorts of sensations and impres- 
sions that lure the attention and interest from the inner 
world. The relentless flood of newspapers, radio programs, 
and movies may widen or fill the external mind, while at the 
same time, and in the same measure, consciousness of the 
inner world becomes darkened and may-eventually disappear 
altogether. But "forgetting” is not identical with "getting 
rid of.” On the contrary, the situation has become worse: 
instead of facing the enemy, we risk being attacked from the 
rear, where we are unaware and defenceless. 

"Normal insanity” begins when the emotions are 
aroused. In these days we have ample opportunity to observe 
this process on a grand scale. We can see every form of 
mental contagion, from the crudest sentimentalism to the 
most subtle, secret poisoning of reason, and this among the 
so-called normal people — the average individuals who largely 
make up a nation or a state. Their amazing defencelessness 
against suggestions, even against the wildest social and 
political ideas and ideals, is not exactly a proof of the strength 
of consciousness and reason. But since there must be strength 
somewhere, it is presumably in that which overcomes reason 
t— in the irrational and emotional factors. 

Emotions are instinctive, involuntary reactions that up- 
set the rational order of consciousness by their elementary 
outbursts. Emotions are not "made,” or wilfully produced, 
in and by consciousness. Instead, they appear suddenly, leap- 
ing up from an unconscious region. As long as the uncon- 
scious is in a dormant condition, it is just as if there were 
nothing at. all in that hidden region. We are really and most 
thoroughly unconscious of the existence of the unconscious. 
We are therefore always surprised afresh to discover that 
something can jump upon our back or fall upon our head 



out of mere nothingness, radically altering the pattern of our 
individual or social lives. 

Afterward the historian, or the psychologist, steps in and 
shows us convincingly that things happened as they did be- 
cause for such and such reasons it had to be so. But who could 
have told us this before? The public mind was long ago in 
possession of the main pieces of evidence for the subsequent 
trial in the court of historical reason. But nobody was con- 
scious of it at the time. When John Huss and Wycliffe 
preached, the age of the Reformation had begun — but no- 
body knew it. It was there in potentia, but no one could see 
it with the eyes or touch it with the hands, and thus it was 
not in consciousness. But it existed below the threshold of 
awareness. It was still unconscious, like a sun below the 
horizon, of which a savage might say, "There is no sun.” We 
are like those primitives who believe that every evening the 
sun dies and vanishes, and that if anything rises next morn- 
ing, it is a new sun. We are always surprised by the fact that 
Si mething comes out of what we call "nothing.” 

That is our attitude toward the unconscious. We call 
it nothing, and yet it is a whole reality in potentia: the sun 
that rises tomorrow, the thought we are going to think, the 
deed we are going to do, even the fate we are going to 
lament — tomorrow. Since we now know that, from the be- 
ginning, it has always been the same sun that sets in the 
evening and rises in the morning, we could, or should, afford 
to be less surprised at the sempiternal nature of the uncon- 
scious. But, whereas we think in terms of years, the uncon- 
scious thinks and behaves in terms of thousands of years. 
When something happens which we call an unheard-of 
innovation, it is really a very old story. Like little children, 
we still forget what we were yesterday. We still live in a 
miraculously new world, in which man imagines himself 
to be astonishingly new, or "modern.” 

Such a state of affairs is an unmistakable symptom of 



the youth of human consciousness, which is still unaware 
of its origins. 

"Normal” man convinces me, even more than the luna- 
tic, of the powerful autonomy of the unconscious. The psy- 
chological theory of the psychoses can take refuge behind 
real or imaginary organic disturbances of the brain and thus 
invalidate the importance of the unconscious. But such a 
device is not applicable to normal humanity. What is actually 
happening in the world is due not merely to "dim remnants 
of formerly conscious activities,” but to volcanic outbursts 
from the very bottom of things. Otherwise, nobody could be 
astonished. Yet the very people who give the least credit to 
the autonomy of the unconscious are the most surprised. 

Our consciousness, being still young and frail, has a 
tendency to make little of the unconscious. This is under- 
standable enough, for a young boy should not be too deeply 
impressed by the majesty of his parents if he wants to accom- 
plish something in his own right and way. Our consciousness 
has developed cumulatively, as well as individually, from the 
darkness and the twilight of the primordial unconscious. 
There were psychical processes and functions long before 
there was an ego-consciousness. Thinking existed long before 
any human voice said, "I am conscious of thinking.” 

The primitive "perils of the soul” consist mainly of 
dangers to consciousness. Fascination, bewitchment, loss of 
soul, possession, and so on are clearly phenomena of dissocia- 
tion, regression, and suppression of consciousness by uncon- 
scious contents. As we have seen, even civilized man is not 
yet out of the woods. Theunconscious is the mother of con- 
sciousness. Where there is a mother there, should als» -be.a. 
latter, but he seems to be unknown. Consciousness, the frail 
youngster, may deny his father, but he cannot deny his 
mother. That would be too preposterous, since one can see in 
every child how hesitatingly and haltingly the ego-conscious- 
ness develops from a fragmentary consciousness of the mo- 


ment, and how it slowly appears out of the complete dark- 
ness of mere instinctivity. 

The careful analysis of human personality has accumu- 
lated a vast amount of evidence affording definite proof of 
the existence of an autonomous, instinctive activity, begin- 
ning in an unconscious layer of the mind and ending in 
activities that strongly influence conscious behaviour. I omit 
a discussion of this evidence here, as the reader will find 
plenty of such material in the following essays. 

The conscious mind is based upon , and results from, 
an unconscious psyche which is prior to consciousness and 
continues to function together with, or despite, conscious- 
ness. Although there are many cases of conscious contents 
that become unconscious again — through repression, for in- 
stance — the unconscious as a whole is far from being a relic 
of consciousness. (Are the psychic functions of animals 
remnants of consciousness?) The unconscious is prior to con- 
scious mind, and it is autonomous; it has a law unto itself. 

As I pointed out earlier, there is little hope of finding 
in the unconscious an order similar to that of the e go-con- 
sciousness. Superficially studied, at least, the unconscious is 
not encouraging in this respect. So far as research has gone, 
it does not look as if we were likely to discover an uncon- 
scious ego-personality, something like a Pythagorean “coun- 
tersun.” Yet we cannot overlook the fact that, just as con- 
sciousness arises from unconsciousness, the ego-centre also 
emerges from a dark depth in which it was somehow con- 
tained in potentia. As a human mother can only produce a 
child potentially human, whose nature was concealed in her 
during gestation, so we are almost forced to believe that the 
unconscious cannot be an altogether chaotic accumulation 
of instincts and images. Something must hold it together. 
Its centre cannot be the ego, since the ego was born in the 
conscious mind and turns its back on the unconscious, seek- 

14 the integration of the personality 

ing to deny it as best it can. Or can it be that the uncon- 
scious lost its centre when the ego was born? If this is 
so, we should expect the ego to be far superior to the uncon- 
scious in strength of influence and of purpose. The uncon- 
scious would follow meekly in the wake of ego-consciousness. 
This, however, is only how we wish things to be. I admit that 
it is possible to base a manly and healthy ideal upon this 
view; it is good for youthful illusions, but its truth is ques- 
tionable. The facts unfortunately point quite the other way: 
consciousness all too easily succumbs to unconscious influ- 
ences, and these are often enough more to the point or more 
intelligent than the conscious judgements. It is also true that 
unconscious motives often overrule conscious decisions in the 
main issues of life. Even individual fate largely .hangs upon 
the fact that unconscious factors are often predominant. 

A close examination of the conscious functions shows 
how much they depend upon an undisturbed use of memory. 
But memory often suffers from interference by unconscious 
processes. Moreover, it generally functions in an automatic 
way. It ordinarily uses the bridges of association, but fre- 
quently in such an extraordinary way that we must atten- 
tively reconsider the whole process of remembering if we 
wish to discover how certain memories managed to appear in 
consciousness. And not rarely the bridges remain altogether 
undiscoverable. In such cases it is impossible to refute the 
hypothesis of unconscious spontaneity. Another case is the 
function of intuitio n, which largely depends upon uncon- 
scious operations of a complex nature. Because of this pecu- 
liarity, I have defined it as "perception of relations via the 

Normally, the unconscious collaborates with conscious- 
ness in a smooth and unobtrusive way, so that one does not 
even realize its existence. But if an individual deviates too 
much from the original instinctive pattern, then he realizes 
the full impact of the unconscious forces. What is true of 


the individual holds also for the social group. The collabora- 
tion of the unconscious is intelligible and purposive. Even 
when it is in opposition to consciousness, it acts in a com- 
pensatory or complementary way, as if it were trying 
establish the lost balance. The more serious the mental diffi- 
culty, however, the more incomprehensible are the mani- 
festations of the unconscious. This is particularly the case in 
neuroses and psychoses. 

There are dreams and visions of such an informative 
kind that the people who have them refuse to believe that 
they derive from an unconscious psyche. They prefer to 
suppose that they issue from a sort of superconsciousness. 
Such people usually distinguish between a quasi-physiolog- 
ical, or instinctive, unconscious and a psychic sphere, or 
layer, "above” consciousness which they style the supercon- 
sciousness. As a matter of fact, the psyche called the superior 
or the universal mind in Hindu philosophy corresponds to 
what the West calls the unconscious. Certain dreams, visions, 
and mystical experiences, however, suggest the existence of 
a consciousness in the unconscious. But, if we assume a con- 
sciousness in the unconscious, we are at once faced with the 
difficulty that consciousness cannot exist unless there is a sub- 
ject — an ego — to which mental contents are related. Con- 
sciousness needs a centre, an ego to whom something is con- 
scious. We know of no other kind of consciousness, nor can 
we imagine a consciousness without an ego. Consciousness 
cannot exist when there is no one to say, "I am conscious.” 

I must admit that there are experiences that give plausi- 
bility to the hypothesis of an ego in the unconscious realm. 
Still, for the reasons already mentioned, I feel rather hesitant 
to adopt it, the more so as I should not know what or whom 
to call the ego of that consciousness. Moreover, I am unable 
to separate an unconscious below from an unconscious above, 
since I find intelligence and purposiveness below as well as 


above. It is obvious that the centre of a transcendental con- 
sciousness cannot be the human ego, since the ego has neither 
a hand in producing such experiences nor the necessary in- 
telligence to understand them. It can only be their victim — 
or the receiver of divine grace. ( 

There is not much merit in speculating about things we 
cannot know. It is best to refrain from venturesome state- 
ments that go beyond the boundaries of science. This is 
neither malevolent criticism nor scepticism; I simply hold 
that honesty demands that we remain within the narrow 
confines of our knowledge. It is not only immodest, it is 
intellectually immoral to make assertions that go beyond the 
reach of human cognition. The matters we have just consid- 
ered are partial manifestations of processes that in their 
entirety are inaccessible to our cognition. As I said before, 
they may have, and occasionally they seem to have, qualities 
that we might refer to a consciousness not identical with.our 
own. But as long as we have no other means of ascertaining 
the existence of a transcendental consciousness we have to 
admit our uncertainty. 

As far, then, as my observations go, I have not discov- 
ered in the unconscious anything like a personality compara- 
ble to the conscious ego. But, although a definite alter ego 
seems not to exist (except in the rare cases of dual person- 
ality) , there are at least traces of personalities in the mani- 
festations of the unconscious. A simple example is the dream, 
in which a variety of real and imaginary people enact the 
dream thoughts. In nearly all important cases of dissociation 
the manifestations of the unconscious assume a distinctive 
character. The unconscious personates. This phenomenon has 
supported and renewed the belief in spirits. But a careful 
examination of the behaviour and psychic make-up of such 
personations reveals their fragmentary character. They seem 
to represent complexes split off from a greater whole; splin- 
ters chipped from the main block. 


I have constantly been impressed by the peculiarly or- 
ganized character of dissociated fragments. They resemble 
whole or partial personalities. Often I have asked myself 
whether we are not justified in assuming that, if the splinters 
have personality, then the block from which they were 
separated must have personality to a still higher degree. The 
conclusion seems logical, and the case is the same whether 
the fragments are big or small. Why, then, should not the 
whole have personality too? This personality, of course, 
would be a completely concealed and inaccessible entity. 
Personality does not necessarily include consciousness. It can 
be dormant or, at most, dreaming. 

Nevertheless, the general aspect of unconscious mani- 
festations is in the main chaotic and irrational, in spite of 
many symptoms of intelligence and purposiveness. The un- 
conscious produces dreams, irrational fantasies, peculiar 
visions, primitive emotions, grotesque or fabulous ideas, and 
the like — exactly what one would expect of a dreaming per- 
son stirring in his sleep. The unconscious seems to have a 
personality that has never been awake or conscious either of 
a continuity in itself or of a life lived. The only question is 
whether the hypothesis of such a dormant and deeply con- 
cealed personality is tenable. It may be that all of the per- 
sonality to be found in the unconscious is contained in the 
personations mentioned before. If this is the case, all my 
guesswork would be futile. On the other hand, there possibly 
exist concealed personalities that are far less fragmentary — 
which is to say, more complete. 

I am convinced that there is evidence for this view, 
although unfortunately it belongs to the intricacies and 
subtleties of psychological analysis. 

It is the accepted theory that sex. , is determined by a 
preponderance of male- or female-producing genes in the 
combined chromosomes of sperm and ovum after fertiliza- 


tion has taken place. Biologically, therefore, a man contains 
female-producing elements, a .woman male-producing ele- 
ments, a fact of which each, as a rule, is quite unaware. Cer- 
tainly there are few men who could or would care to tell us 
what they would be like if they were females. Yet all men 
must have more or less latent female components if it is true 
that the female-forcing elements continue to live and per- 
petuate themselves throughout the body cells of the entire 
male organism. How these sex-determining elements func- 
tion in the body is not known, but there can be no doubt 
that they are at least indirectly responsible for the existence 
of the male and female sex hormones which in turn govern 
the secondary sex characters, that is, the traits we associate 
with "masculineness” or "feminineness” in the individual. 

It is easy to observe that women at a more advanced 
age develop masculine qualities, grow a moustache, acquire 
a rather acute and sometimes obstinate mind, and often 
develop a deeper voice. Men of advanced age, on the con- 
trary, become mellow, "lovely” old men — soft, kind to chil- 
dren, sentimental, and rather emotional; their anatomical 
forms become rounded, they take interest in the family and 
home life, in genealogy, gossip, and so on. It is by no means 
rare for the wife to take over business responsibilities in later 
life, while the husband plays a merely helpful role. If you 
study the photographs of a primitive tribe, and if you com- 
pare the old people with the young, you will see what be- 
comes at a more advanced age of lovely young girls and of 
animalistic, brutal young men. A completely hidden char- 
acter of the opposite sex comes into the foreground. 

The observer who has sharpened his eyes and acquired 
a good deal of practical experience begins to discover symp- 
toms (often astonishing ones) of the man in the woman, 
and of the woman in the man. When people are at their best, 
there is not much chance of seeing anything of their other 
side. But if you observe a man when he is caught in a mood, 


you find him to be a different person. Sometimes the change 
is quite remarkable: a man who is ordinarily altruistic, gener- 
ous, amiable, and intelligent becomes, when a certain mood 
seizes upon him, a slightly mean, nastily egotistical, and illog- 
ically prejudiced character. A woman of a usually kind and 
peaceable disposition becomes an argumentative, obstinate, 
narrow-minded shrew if it should come into her head to use 
a half -understood idea heard in a conversation six weeks or 
months ago. (If the man is the woman’s husband, they will 
soon have learned the art of picking out irritating topics that 
inevitably bring out the "other side!”) 

Should you study this world- wide experience with due 
attention, and regard the "other side” as a trait of character, 
you will produce a picture that shows what I mean by the 
anima, the woman in a man, and the animus , the man in a 
woman. By putting together all the cases in which a man 
has reacted to the influence of a mood (which is an emotion 
or affect without sufficient cause), you can build up a 
definite personality. We avoid doing this, as a rule, because 
when we are fond of people we hate to put them in an un- 
favourable light. For the psychologist, however, to do so is a 
professional task. The analysis is not simple for most of us 
to make, because we are not used to dividing an intimate 
friend into two separate characters. We are merely irritated 
by the contradictions in the one person. We do habitually 
sketch out the presumable character of a man, whom we 
have never met, from the contents of the letters he has 
written us; and in a similar way we can sum up all of a 
man’s traits that become visible under the stress of emotion, 
which affords the ideal condition for the manifestation of 
unconscious contents. Under its possession one is "beside one’s 
self,” and the unconscious gets a chance to occupy the fore- 

As a matter of fact, an emotion is the intrusion of an 
unconscious personality. The unconscious contents it brings 


to light have a personal character, and it is merely because 
we never sum them up that we have not discovered this 
other character long ago. To the primitive mind, a man who 
is seized by strong emotion is possessed by a devil or a spirit; 
and our language still expresses the same idea, at least meta- 
phorically. There is much to be said in favour of this point 
of view. 

The character that summarizes a person’s uncontrolled 
emotional manifestations consists, in the first place, of his 
inferior Qualities or peculiarities. Even people we like and 
appreciate suffer from certain imperfections of character 
that have to be taken into the bargain. When people are not 
at their best, such flaws become clearly visible. I have called 
the inferior and less commendable part of a person the 
shadow. We have met with this figure in literature; for in- 
stance, Faust and his shadow Mephistopheles. There is an ex- 
cellent description of this figure in E. T. A. Hoffmann’s The 
Elixirs of the Devil. 

But the shadow is not all that becomes manifest in emo- 
tional disturbance; and it is not sufficient to explain why a 
man has the rather definite feeling that "he is not himself” 
or that “he is beside himself.” There is at such times a pecu- 
liar strangeness about a man, which we positively dislike to 
attribute to him in our ordinary thought of him. Therefore, 
we say, "I did not recognize him any more,” "he forgot him- 
self,” or "he did not know himself any longer.” Such collo- 
quial expressions clearly formulate a peculiar strangeness or 
alienation. "Alien£” is the French word for insane, and we 
freely use the word “mad” for angry. As a matter of fact, 
emotions are coupled with a greater or smaller loss of con- 
sciousness, and with a narrowing dowh of the mind to a re- 
markable single-mindedness, not to say imbecility. When the 
storm has blown over, and the former self has appeared again, 
we prefer to think that the strange presence has disappeared 
altogether, we hope that the whole thing has not been true. 



Yet nothing of this kind really disappears. It merely returns 
to the unconscious, where it awaits its next opportunity. 
For a keen eye, even, it does not disappear completely. Its 
influence is still there, less obvious, yet more subtle and 

The strangeness is due to the emergence of a different 
character — one that we hesitate to ascribe to the ego per- 
sonality. This formulation of the matter sounds as if it pre- 
tended to be new or unexpected. But there is actually nothing 
new about it. Practically everybody knows it. Do we not 
always expect something different behind our first impres- 
sions of people? Do we not say, "Wait, until you know him 
better”? Or a wife says, "You have not been married to him 
for twenty years.” Are we quite sure of ourselves? Are we 
absolutely certain about our own character, should we find 
ourselves in a tight corner? 

If people are honest with themselves they must admit 
a certain fear of something that may overcome them. Even 
saints, or rather just the saints, have their specific devils, 

• and even if they fight them successfully, it is often a close 
call. Otherwise saintliness would be cheap. 

"Strangeness” is, of course, a relative term. One should 
probably say "relatively strange,” since it usually depends 
upon circumstances whether we can draw a favourable pic- 
ture of ourselves or not. Certain people may never have an 
inkling of another side, either because circumstances pre- 
vented their seeing it or because they themselves were too 
unconscious and too unreflective to realize it. 

This rather cursory description of two groups of con- 
tents that make up personalities in the unconscious — the 
anima (or animus) and the shadow — would be inadequate, 
if I did not emphasize the fact that, in a man’s case, the 
anima has a definitely feminine and the shadow an equally 
definite masculine character. It may strike the reader that 


my description of the shadow does not markedly differ from 
my picture of the anima. This is due to the fact that I have 
spoken only of the immediate and superficial aspects of these 
figures. Particularly the description of the anima is most 
incomplete. In the following essays, the reader will find a 
fuller demonstration of the anima’s nature. . 

If we compare a number of emotional events, we can 
easily see that the same character reappears in every one of 
them. For this reason we can attribute continuity to the 
unconscious personality, and ascribe to it the emotional in- 
trusions. This point of view is at bottom nothing but an 
imitation, or repetition, of the way in which primitive man 
comes to the conclusion that there are such things as witches 
and ghosts. But he is satisfied with the general assertion that 
witches and ghosts exist, and does not try to specify their 
nature. The psychological procedure of which I speak is an 
attempt to reconstruct an individual character. It is not only 
of theoretical interest, in certain cases, but of great prac- 
tical importance. Patients often suffer so much from intru- 
sions of the unconscious that it helps them considerably to 
know their opponent "personally.” 

It is not always a laborious process to reconstruct the 
anima. Sometimes she appears already personified in dreams 
and other products of unconscious activity. We also find her 
as a classical figure in prose fiction; for instance, in books 
by Haggard , 8 Benoit , 4 Sloane , 8 and others. These authors 
have fully succeeded in reconstructing the collective picture 
of the anima. They are clearly dealing with one and the 
same ‘mythological and transcendental figure, yet with in- 
dividual variations. An element of the supernatural always 
adheres to the anima. This must be so, since she is an entity 
living almost entirely in the "other world” of the uncon- 

Although the anima is a reconstruction and a hypothesis, 
the idea explains for us many tragic or puzzling love affairs 


and their amazing reversals. As long as a man is unconscious 
of his anima she is frequently projected upon a real woman, 
and the man’s fantasy equips her with all the fascinating 
qualities peculiar to the anima. Her moral range is rather 
wide: she embraces the degraded woman and the femme 
inspiratrice, Faust’s Gretchen, and the Virgin. Edouard 
Schur6 8 has given us an almost schematic description of the 
anima, but he had to present her as two figures, since he 
could not fit all the paradoxes into one person. Charles 
Kingsley’s Hypatia describes a similar case. 

The figure of the animus, the man in the woman, is 
equally paradoxical. The best literary description I have come 
across is that by Ronald Frazer. 7 It is a curious fact that 
no woman of talent has succeeded in producing an adequate 
picture. It may be that a woman’s animus writes her novels 
for her, and thus escapes portrayal. But Frazer has pro- 
duced a clever and accurate picture of the animus, running 
the whole gamut from utter banality to supreme mystery. 

Animus and anima are natural "archetypes,” primordial 
figures of the unconscious, and have given rise to the mytho- 
logical gods and goddesses. It is, therefore, rather a futile 
undertaking to disinfect Olympus with rational enlighten- 
ment. The gods are not there; they are ensconced in the 
shadows of the unconscious, where we cannot uproot them. 
Whenever a projection of these archetypes is destroyed by 
rational criticism, the disembodied image returns to its origin, 
the archetype. There it awaits a new opportunity to project 
itself. Rationalism is certainly called for in many pursuits, 
but as soon as it leaves the scientific laboratory to trespass in 
the domains of life it always expects the things that never 
happen. Reason has never ruled life, and presumably it never 
will. The questions of life and fate are too often — and per- 
haps for the largest part — decided by the powers of the un- 

To the psychological beginner, animus and anima are 

24 the integration of the personality 

certainly nothing but elusive wraiths. It needs a good deal 
of specific experience to recognize and understand their 
subtle but powerful activity. But when the student has ac- 
quired the necessary powers of psychological criticism, he 
can derive a fairly accurate picture of their nature. They ap- 
pear as strange, unconscious entities, which he would like to 
endow with ego-consciousness. They seem almost capable 
of it. 

But the facts do not support this idea. There is nothing 
in their behaviour that bespeaks an ego-consciousness, as we 
know it. On the contrary, they show every sign of being 
fragmentary personalities. They are masklike, wraithlike, 
without problems of their own or any self -reflection, with no 
conflict, no doubt, no suffering; something like the gods, 
who have no philosophy; like the Brahma-gods of the 
Buddhist Samyutta-nikaya whose erroneous views need Gau- 
tama Buddha’s correction. They seem to be functions or 
instincts which appear in a personal form when aroused from 
their dormant condition. But contrary to the functions at- 
tached to consciousness, they are always strangers in the con- 
scious world. Because they permeate the atmosphere with a 
feeling of uncanny foreboding, or even with the fear of men- 
tal derangement, they are unwelcome intruders. 

In studying their psychic constituents — that is, the 
imaginative material manifested through them — we find any 
number of archaic and "historical” connections, contents, 
archetypal images that we call mythological themes. The 
reader will find many such parallels in the following chap- 
ters . 8 This peculiarity allows one to locate the anima and 
animus: they obviously live or function in the deeper layers 
of the unconscious mind, in the phylogenetic substructures 
of the modern mind, the so-called collective unconscious. 

This localization explains a good deal of their strange- 
ness: they bring into our ephemeral consciousness an un- 
known psychic life belonging to a remote past. This psychic 


life is the mind of our ancient ancestors, the way in which 
they thought and felt, the way in which they conceived 
of life and the world, of gods and human beings. The exist- 
ence of these historical layers is presumably the source of 
the belief in reincarnation and in memories of past lives. As 
the body is a sort of museum of its phylogenetic history, so 
is the mind. There is no reason for believing that the psyche, 
with its peculiar structure, is the only thing in the world that 
has no history beyond its individual manifestation. Even the 
conscious mind cannot be denied a history extending over at 
least five thousand years. It is only individual ego-conscious- 
ness that has forever a new beginning and an early end. But 
the unconscious psyche is not only immensely old, it is also 
able to grow unceasingly into an equally remote future. It 
forms, and is part of, the human species just as much as the 
body, which is also individually ephemeral, yet collectively 
of immeasurable duration. 

The anima and animus live in a world quite different 
from our own; in a world where the pulse of time beats ever 
so slowly; where the birth and death of individuals count 
little, and where ten thousand years ago is yesterday. No 
wonder that their aspect is strange — so strange that their 
intrusion into consciousness often blasts into fragments the 
all-too-feeble brainpans of unfortunate mortals. Anima and 
animus Contain the greater part of the material which ap- 
pears in insanity, more especially in schizophrenia. 

The anima and animus are not the only figures discern- 
ible in the unconscious. I could mention others with aspects 
of their own that can be distinguished from the animus and 
anima. But as they are just as baffling to the ego-conscious- 
ness, I shall not discuss them here. 

What I have said about the unconscious may give an 
approximate idea of what is meant by that term. Coming 
now to the problem of individuation, we see that we are 



confronted with a rather extraordinary task: the psyche 
consists of two incongruous halves that should properly make 
a "whole” together. One is inclined to think that the ego- 
consciousness is capable of assimilating and integrating the 
unconscious; one hopes, at least, that such a solution is pos- 
sible. But, unfortunately, the unconscious is really uncon- 
scious; it is unknown. And how can you assimilate some- 
thing unknown? Even if one has a pretty complete idea of 
his anima and of other such figures, he has not yet sounded 
the depths of the unconscious. One hopes to dominate the 
unconscious, but the past masters of this art of domination — 
the yogis — wind up with samadhi, an ecstatic condition that 
seems to be equivalent to an unconscious state. The fact that 
they call our unconscious the universal consciousness, does 
not change things in the least: in their case the un'conscious 
has devoured the ego-consciousness. They do not realize that 
a "uniyirsal” consciousness is a contradiction in terms, since 
exclusiveness, selection, and discrimination are the root and 
essence of all that can claim the name of consciousness. 

A "universal” consciousness is logically identical with 
unconsciousness. It is true that an accurate application of the 
methods of the Pali-canon, or of the Yogasutra, produces a 
remarkable extension of consciousness. But the contents of 
consciousness lose in clearness of detail with increasing ex- 
tension. In the end, consciousness becomes vast but dim, 
with an infinite multitude of objects merging into an indis- 
tinct totality — a state in which the subjective and objective 
are almost completely identical. This is all very well, but 
scarcely to be recommended anywhere north of the Tropic 
of Cancer. 

We must attempt a different solution. We believe in 
ego-consciousness and in what we call reality. The realities 
of a northern climate are somehow so convincing that we 
are better off if we do not forget them. It makes sense to deal 
with reality: "My ego-consciousness is, therefore, inclined to 


swallow the unconscious, and if that should not be feasible, I 
will try to repress it.” That is how we look at the question. 
But if we understand anything about the unconscious we 
know that it cannot be swallowed. We know also that it is 
dangerous to repress it, for we have learned that the un- 
conscious is life, and that if life is repressed it will live against 
us, as is the case in neuroses. 

Consciousness and the unconscious do not make a whole 
when either is suppressed or damaged by the other. If they 
must Contend, let it be a fair fight with equal right on both 
sides. Both are aspects of life. Let consciousness defend its 
reason and its self-protective ways, and let the chaotic life 
of the unconscious be given a fair chance to have its own 
way, as much of it as we can stand. This' means at once open 
conflict and open collaboration. Yet, paradoxically, this is 
presumably what human life should be. It is the old play of 
hammer and anvil: the suffering iron between them will in 
the end be shaped into an unbreakable whole, the individual. 
This experience is what is called, in the later sections of 
this book, the process of individuation. 

Particularly in one of the following chapters I try to 
show how the psyche behaves under the strain of the con- 
flict, what it produces in the individual, and how it has been 
exemplified in the history of the human mind. In this second 
connection, the reader will perhaps be astonished at the em- 
phasis I lay on alchemy, which is discussed in the fifth chap- 
ter. Alchemy is not an old hobby of mine; I began a thorough 
study of the subject only within the last few years. My rea- 
son for making a fairly extensive use of alchemistic parallels 
is that in my psychological practice I have observed quite a 
number of actual patients’ cases which show unmistakable 
similarities to alchemistic symbolism. In my next chapter I 
deal with one of those cases. Because a psychologist must be 
particularly careful not to suggest his own theories to a 



patient, I wish to point out that none of the cases mentioned 
were under my care after I had begun the study of alchemy. 

If the process of individuation is an empirical fact, 
rather than a theory, one must expect the problem to have 
its history. It must have played a more or less important 
role in former centuries. And that historic background does, 
indeed, exist. I have known for twenty-five years that Gnos- 
ticism contains striking parallels to the symbolism of the 
process of individuation. But a gap of almost 1,600 years 
separates us from that peculiar religious philosophy. For a 
long time I was unable to find the mediaeval parallel to this 
problem. Even Silberer’s book 0 did not convince me that 
alchemy was the missing link. 

The reason it took me so long to bridge the gulf between 
Gnosticism and modern psychology was my profound igno- 
rance of Greek and Latin alchemy and its symbolism. The 
little I knew of German alchemistic treatises did not do 
much to enlighten me about their abstruse symbolism. At all 
events, I was unable to make the connection with what I 
knew of psychological individuation. 

That the parallel dawned upon me at all is due to the 
visionary dreams contained in the next chapter. I must con- 
fess that it cost me quite a struggle to overcome the preju- 
dice, which I shared with many others, against the seeming 
absurdity of alchemy. There is no hope of an approach to the 
subject if it is considered from the standpoint of modern 
chemistry, and it appears Homeless when one first tries to 
understand it psychologically.' But my patience has been 
richly rewarded. I am now satisfied that alchemy is the req- 
uisite mediaeval exemplar of this concept of individuation. 
There is a real continuity in the unremitting attempts of 
human minds to deal with the problem from the first century 
of our era on to the middle of the eighteenth. Goethe’s 
Faust is the last magnificent link in "Homer’s golden chain,” 
and at the same time the introduction of the problem to a 



new, psychologically minded age. The fifth chapter gives a 
psychological explanation of alchemy, and also presents the 
idea of individuation as a fundamental alchemistic symbol. 
The problem necessarily involves the question of religion. 
If the reader is particularly interested in the relation of re- 
ligion to psychology, I call his attention to my Terry Lec- 
tures on "Psychology and Religion.” 10 


i. The first time Freud applied his point of view to a psychosis was in the famous 
Schrcbcr case, to which I had called his attention: Sigmund Freud, “Psychoanalytische 
Bcmerkungen uber einen autobiographisch beschriebenen Fall von Paranoia,*' Jabrbucb 
fur Psychoanal. Psychopathol. Forschungen, Bd. Ill, p. 9. 

1. There arc many different kinds of psychoses. I refer here chiefly to a certain 
category of schizophrenia. 

3. Rider Haggard, She. New York: Longmans, Green and Company, 1918. 

4. Piefre Benoit, L’Atlantide. Paris: A. Michel, 1920. 

j. William Sloane, To Walk the Night . New York: Farrar & Rinehart, 1937. 

6. Edouard Schure, La Pretresse d’Isis. Paris: Perrin et Cie, 1907. 

7. Ronald Frazer, The Flying Draper . New York: P. Smith, 1931. 

8. In my Psychology of the Unconscious (New York: Moffat, Yard & Company, 
1916; Dodd, Mead & Company, 1931) I have described the case of a young woman with 
a “hero story,” that is, an animus-fantasy, which yielded a rich harvest of mythological 
material. Rider Haggard (op. cit.) t Pierre Benoit (op. cit.) t and Goethe, in Faust , have 
emphasized the “historical** character of the anima. 

9. Herbert Silberer, Problems of Mysticism and Its Symbolism. New York: Moffat, 
Yard and Company, 1917* 

10. Jung, Psychology and Religion. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1938. 


A Study in the Process of Individuation 

In the twentieth chapter of the Tao Te Ching, Laotse 


Give up your leamedness. 

Then you will be free from cares! 

Between "yes” and "yes indeed,” what difference is there? 
Between good and bad, what difference is there? 

But what all men honour, 

That one may not with impunity set aside. 

0 wilderness, have I not yet reached your centre? 

The men of the multitude are radiant 

As at the celebration of great feasts, 

As when in the spring people climb upon the towers. 

1 alone am undecided, still without a sign to act by. 

Like a little child that is not yet able to laugh — 

A weary wanderer, who has no home. 

The men of the multitude all live in superabundance; 

I alone am like one abandoned. 

Truly, I have the heart of a fool! 

Chaos, O chaos! 

The men of the world are clear, so clear — 

I alone am as if beclouded. 

The men of the world lust so after knowledge — 

I alone am downcast, so downcast; 

Restless, alas, as the sea! 

Driven hither and yon, alas, like one who dwells nowhere! 

The men of the multitude all have something to do— 

I alone am as idle as a ne'er-do-well. 

I alone am not as other people are, 

For I value the lavishing Mother* 



I have had to borrow these verses from the East because 
the European has not yet framed the question they contain. 
Laotse also gives the answer: 

The form of the full life wholly follows the Tao. 

The Tao, invisible, ungraspable, brings things about! 

It contains images, ungraspable, invisible! 

It contains things, invisible, ungraspable! 

It contains seed, unfathomable and dark! 

This seed is the truth. 

This truth embraces faith. 

From the very beginning until today 

The name of Tao has been indispensable 

For the understanding of the origin of all things. 

And how do I know 

That the origin of all things is of this nature? 

Through the Tao! 

This avowal of Laotse’s expresses a mood that is char- 
acteristic also of the white man when he bethinks himself. 
But he is full of unrest; he knows only the premises, and not 
the conclusion that would furnish him an answer; only the 
surface, and not the depths from which it could spring. We 
are in reality unable to borrow or absorb anything from out- 
side, from the world, or from history. What is essential to us 
can only grow out of ourselves. When the white man is true 
to his instincts, he reacts defensively against any advice that 
one might give him. What he has already swallowed, he is 
forced to reject again as if it were a foreign body, for his 
blood refuses to assimilate anything sprung from foreign 

This being so, it is the part of wisdom not to tell the 
white man anything or give him any advice. The best cannot 
be told, anyhow, and the second best does not strike home. 
One must be able to let things happen. I have learned from 
the East what it means by the phrase "Wu wei”: namely, 
not-doing, letting be, which is quite different from doing 


nothing. Some Occidentals, also, have known what this 
not-doing means; for instance, Meister Eckhardt, who speaks 
of "sich lassen,” to let oneself be. The region of darkness 
into which one falls is not empty; it is the “lavishing mother” 
of Laotse, the "images” and the “seed.” When the surface 
has been cleared, things can grow out of the depths. People 
always suppose that they have lost their way when they 
come up against these depths of experience. But if they do 
not know how to go on, the only answer, the only advice, 
that makes any sense is “to wait for what the unconscious 
has to say about the situation.” A way is only the way when 
one finds it and follows it oneself. 

The 'question of Laotse’s is a hard one for the Occi- 
dental to confront. To find its answer is not simple; there is 
no general prescription for "how one should do it.” But I 
can show by an example how, in a given case, it may be done. 
And this brings us directly up against the reality of our 
Western world. With us the beginning is always wholly a 
matter of the personal life, for there is nothing in the more 
traditional aspect of our culture that offers a true equivalent 
to the East. All attempts to do as the East does, or to feel 
as the East feels; all imitation and lofty' ideas; every “but 
one should” — these are nothing but empty words and fine 
notions that bring absolutely nothing to pass in the psyche, 
and nothing living to growth. For us, the integration of 
the personality waits upon a challenge which, willingly or 
unwillingly, we offer to ourselves. 

It is a problem that appears to haunt a great many of us, 
for the process of individuation is far from an automatic 
psychic development. For example, take the case of a patient 
of mine, a woman, fifty-five years old and unmarried. She is 
an intellectual person with a good academic education, in no 
way morbid or neurotic. For nine years she had had a warm 
interest in psychology. In the tenth year she came to a region 

if *3v4 JJSj 



of inner darkness where the road apparently ended, and she 
no longer knew how to go on. In a last- attempt to try some- 
thing or other she came to me. I was, so to speak, the last 
piece on her chessboard. 

At the same time it occurred to her that she had never 
been to the country where her mother was born; indeed, she 
had had a very unsatisfactory relation with her mother. So, 
on her way to Zurich, she travelled first to her ancestral 
homeland, and there was seized with an unexpected desire 
to paint landscapes of the countryside. Up to that time she 
had had no aesthetic inclinations, nor did she have any apti- 
tude in painting or drawing. Her modest attempts at land- 
scape painting, however, gave her a peculiar sense of new life. 
When she arrived in Zurich, she continued her attempts. On 
the day before she came to me for the first time, she again 
painted a landscape; and while she was doing so a mental 
image suddenly appeared to her. She saw the lower part of 
her body thrust into the earth, or rather, among boulders. 
In the background of her mental picture is the sea. I myself 
pass by in the form of a sorcerer with his magic wand. She 
calls to me to help her; I touch the rock in which she is 
caught with my magic wand; it breaks apart, and her form 

She then had the feeling that she should paint this fan- 
tasy, and did so. But as she had no skill, the picture, which 
she showed me on the following day, was a rather inadequate 
attempt. In it (Plate I) , the boulders look like eggs cut open, 
with seeds in the centre. There is a hole in the sky, and the 
wind blows out of it. 

She said that the figure represented herself — that she 
needed to be set free; and her fantasy had anticipated this 
statement. Analysis, however, soon showed her that I pos- 
sessed no magic wand — that her release had to be won for 
herself through honest effort. But what kind of effort? I set 
her the task of representing her release. In the picture (Plate 

34 the integration of the personality 

II) that she drew for this purpose, the rocks divide them- 
selves and a sphere emerges. This second picture contains no 

Why was it necessary for her to represent these feelings 
and states of mind in terms of actual drawing? Such pictures 
seem to have, for the patient, a psychological magic. Because 
pictorial expression fixes certain unconscious contents and 
draws others around it, he can work magic by this means, but 
only upon himself. Instead of merely being in a subjective 
state, he is confronted with objective form that reflects the 
psychological situation. Before this particular patient had 
painted her picture she was aware only of her standstill 
on the subjective side. She was not a human being, for only 
half of her personality was alive, and the upper half at that — 
this being all that seemed to her acceptable, genteel, good, 
and so forth. In other words, only the upper half of her per- 
sonality was developed. The lower half was unconscious — 
mere earth, mere stone. The picture that so clearly expressed 
this state raised the challenge of liberation. She also discov- 
ered that she painted with two parts of herself: with the 
mind and with the eye. The mind always wanted to com- 
pose the picture as it should be, and the eye as it really was. 
But the eyes always won the decision against the mind. As she 
could hardly paint at all, I advised her simply to portray the 
human figure in the form of a hieroglyph, but to execute 
everything else as carefully and in as much detail as possible. 
Like a child, or like primitive man, the unconscious loves to 
see its contents represented in the, brightest colours. They 
exercise upon it a magical attraction. 

My patient said that a struggle always took place be- 
tween the understanding and the eyes,' but that the latter al- 
ways had the last say. In the case of the picture of hef 
liberation, for instance, the understanding wanted a painting 
as bright as day, with radiant sunlight melting out of the 
rocks the hieroglyph that represented herself. But the eyes 


balked, and saw instead a gloomy night scene in which light- 
ning, or Something else as dangerous, played the role of 
liberator. This is the picture she painted. 

In the second picture the human figure is represented 
by a ball, or sphere, with a red centre containing a seed. 
A stroke of lightning liberates the figure from the rock. Be- 
ing dangerous, the lightning is unfavourable; yet she painted 
it in gold, and this colour is always the indication of some- 
thing highly valuable to her. She treated it as though it were 
of greater worth than the seed. In order to lessen the danger, 
the mind wanted to have the sphere blue and red; but the 
eye saw it differently, and the colours were intermingled 
with grey. The same disagreement between the conscious 
opinion and the unconscious intention came to light in her 
interpretation as well. The mind said that the lightning was 
intuition, and that she was about to free herself from her 
present condition by developing this function. To this the 
eye said nothing at all. 

This second picture represents the moment when the 
human being is being liberated from the state of identity 
with the earth. But what is the state of freedom like? Her 
next fantasy gave the answer. She saw the sphere, still denot- 
ing the human being, floating free in the sky and held in 
equilibrium by two opposed and equal forces. The mind said, 
"This is a planet in the nascent state.” It occurred to her that 
several years before, during an operation, she had had an 
ether dream — a "big dream.” (The Africans make a dis- 
tinction between "big dreams” and the "little” ones, which 
are merely of a personal nature. The chief and the medicine 
mah have "big dreams” and these are accepted as revelations 
that decide the fate of the tribe.) The patient told of her 
ether dream as follows: 

"I saw a grey world, with a silver band around its 
equator, rotating in such a way that the band formed zones 
of condensation and rarefaction. At the points of condensa- 


tion appeared numbers from i to 1 2, and it was clear to me 
that these were twelve points of junction in world history, 
and at the same time twelve great personalities.” The twelfth 
was the most important point or the greatest man; it was 
also the highest point in her own development. 

A year after this she had another big dream. Instead of 
a world-sphere hovering in space, she saw in the sky a golden 
serpent gazing down upon a crowd of people. She herself 
was one of the crowd. The serpent chose a young man as a 
victim, and devoured him. Then it looked for another victim, 
and this time pointed to the dreamer herself. She was led 
away to the sacrifice, and awoke. 

Because of her recollection of this dream, she now 
painted another picture (Plate III), in which she placed the 
golden serpent in the sky. Beneath it hovers the sphere she 
had drawn in the preceding picture, this being the globe of 
the ether dream. In the centre is the number 12. The globe 
has the power to float; it has a field of oscillation about it 
that causes it to soar. In commenting upon this, the patient 
says that the field of oscillation is like the wings of the god 
Mercury, the guide of souls in the underworld; it is not made 
of silver, but of quicksilver. She tells me that I call it the 
animus, because she takes the animus in the negative sense 
as the understanding that gives unsuitable interpretations. 
The eye must correct this understanding. The eye is an 
analogue of the sphere. The mercury-animus-understanding 
is thus outside; it should be within. 

The discrepancy between the understanding and the eye 
is again apparent from this third picture. The sphere is the 
totality of the whole human being. In the case of the white 
man, the ego is on top — it is identical with his consciousness. 
It should, however, be contained within the totality of the 
psyche. The number 12 is the point of culmination. It oc- 
curred to her that she was born in the night of the 28th-2?th 


of August — either in the twelfth hour of the 28 th or in the 
first hour of the 29th. Her interpretation of this was: “Either 
in the eleventh hour or at the break of the new day.” The 
number twelve is thus her birth hour. 

Since the band of quicksilver disturbed her, she tried to 
observe whether it would change in her fantasy. She saw the 
silver (the mercury) gradually approaching the sphere. Its 
black lines of force condensed to form the body of a black 
snake, which began to lace itself around the sphere. This 
brought upon her a sense of danger and an attack of fear; 
she felt as if the integrity of the sphere were being threat- 
ened. A moral danger presents itself here. The black snake is 
like a demon. Evil is enfolding her and trying to penetrate 
within. She therefore attempted a picture of an apotropaic 
nature. To protect herself against the evil influence, she 
painted the serpent trying to penetrate the sphere, but re- 
pelled by its hardness. This, however, was a suggestion of the 
mind, and the eye pronounced it an unsatisfactory solution. 
To her own alarm, then, she was forced to paint another 
picture (Plate IV). 

A black snake with golden mercury wings rears itself 
above the sphere and thrusts downward into it. Fire breaks 
out at the point of penetration. The mind wished again to 
suggest that the sphere repulsed the serpent; but the eye 
denies this. The sphere is red and blue, with a tripartite ar- 
rangement within: there are two green elements and one of 
gold. The kernel is surrounded by the silver of the mercury. 
A trinity is thus arrayed against the one, the serpent: the 
three in one against the devil, who is the fourth. 

As Goethe puts it in the second part of Faust: 

From the giant shield of Chelone 

Shines an austere figure: 

They are gods whom we bring; 

You must now sing lofty songs. 


Small in stature, 

Great in power, 

The saviours of the shipwrecked, 

Gods honoured from of old. 

Three we have brought with us, 

The fourth would not come. 

He said, he was the right one 

Who thought for all of them. 


The devil is here also the animus, the one who is always 
right with respect to collective opinion, but who always 
gives false judgments in individual cases. 

This picture, with its objective realization of important 
contents, led up to a turning point in the patient’s psychic 
life. A climax was reached in her spiritual endeavours. To 
give her courage, I showed her a painting, executed by a 
man, in which the serpent rises from below. This gave her a 
sudden light, and she understood that the whole process was 
impersonal in its nature. She seized upon the important truth 
that the ego is not the centre of psychic life; that it revolves 
around the self, the centre, like a planet around the sun; and 
that this is consonant with universal laws. The discernment 
of this truth played a decisive role in her later life. 

Up to this time the patient had lived in a serious error 
suggested to her by the animus, the black serpent, the devil. 
He had made her believe that man is only an ego who has to 
do everything himself, and is responsible for everything; that 
this responsible attitude was the highest morality, and that 
even if one could not always achieve it, one should neverthe- 
less always hold to it. But this belief burdens man with a re- 
sponsibility that he is not able to carry. We are not only 
the ego, as is patent enough from a consideration of the 
bodily functions, which take their course quite independently 
of the ego. The truth is, rather, that the ego depends in the 
most abject fashion upon them. For instance, we may have a 


neurotic gastric disturbance that we cannot get rid of with 
the best will ih the world, if the “how” pf it will not dawn 
on us from the unconscious. 

The serpent demon, however, takes us in with the idea 
that we are seated upon the driver’s seat and can direct our 
lives. He is the devil inasmuch as he raises an insurrection 
against the godhead, the whole. Certain theologians even 
pretend to know what God is, what he can do and cannot do. 
(For one thing, he has not been allowed to publish anything 
for the last two thousand years! ) As to metaphysical truth, 
it appears that everything has already been said. For instance, 
Gogarten declares that God can only be good. 

All this is the devilish presumption of the ego. This is 
why the unconscious wishes to force evil upon us — obviously 
to show us that we know nothing. No doubt the presumption 
of the ego is at bottom only a compensation — but to what? 
To forces that we cannot master. These forces are not "my 
wishes,” "my desires,” for they fall upon me against my will. 
My patient had discovered that psychic happening is only 
for the smallest part under the control of the ego. For the 
larger part it is literally a happening: happening in and for 
itself. She is not accountable for it. Discernment of this truth 
provides her with the formula that enables her to free herself 
from her identity with the earth. She can then accept the 
earth. She at last knows that there are overpowering forces 
from which one cannot escape. We cannot live without being 
approached by evil. 

She had, in her earlier development, lifted herself above 
the earth and was growing into the sky. But when such is 
the case, the roots grow down into Hell. It is always true 
that too much upon one side brings about, in the uncon- 
scious, a too-much upon the other. She had come to a stand- 
still because she was pulled upon by “above” and "below.” 
From now on she was no longer torn by opposites, for she 
could accept the "lower” man as he is. She recognized' that 


evil, the serpent, is a necessary part of the process of growth. 
The dark part must be brought completely above the hori- 
zon, so that life can go on; and the serpent raised to the sky 
illustrates this truth. 

When my patient had made this inner gesture of sub- 
mission, a change took place in her that showed itself in her 
next picture, in which red and blue were carefully separated. 
She had the feeling of tremendous psychic activity, expressed 
in her painting by a streaming of the quicksilver into the 
centre. As a result, the latter was covered over as if by a veil. 
When the veil was dissipated, quite other colours appeared, 
and these colours progressively regrouped themselves in a 
further series of pictures. 

For my patient, red signified Eros, the emotional prin- 
ciple, and blue the intellectual, or Logos, principle. The two 
principles were not separated, but intermingled, as is the case 
with primitive man. She must now learn to distinguish them 
and to differentiate them. But this can happen only when the 
totality of her being has, become conscious to her. 

The next picture (Plate V) is motivated by this differ- 
entiation. The painting as a whole is red; it contains four 
blue spheres, and the serpent is placed below. The centre is 
green, signifying growth, and is surrounded with gold, which 
indicates value. Round about are some black contours. 

The fact that the serpent has been placed below signifies 
that it has been accepted as an objective world-principle. The 
picture expresses a consciousness of the structure of man’s 
being. The latter is represented by the number 4, a number 
which was sacred to the ancients; the Pythagorean tetractys 
and the four directions of the weather vane are examples. 
Four is also the number of the basic psychological functions: 
sensation, thinking, feeling, intuition. It is only at a relatively 
advanced stage of consciousness that the four functions are 
separated and given specific valuation. When this happens, 
the one is preferred to the other, and one function is de- 


veloped to the detriment of the others. But man loses in this 
way his connection with the whole of himself; he identifies 
himself with his most valued function, and all the rest falls 
to the share of the serpent. 

A perception of the significance of fourness, of the 
totality of the psychic structure, means illumination of the 
"inner region.” This recognition is a first step, a necessary 
station on the road of inner development. My patient was 
occupied with it for quite a long time, and built upon it 
until she had attained complete clarity. Another process then 
set in, which I cannot discuss in this connection. 

The point of this case history is that the unconscious 
led my patient to that insight which people of our time have 
not yet attained in general, and which they ought to attain if 
they are to experience the illumination of the "inner region.” 
But there is no "way” to this experience. My patient fol- 
lowed one way, but other people may have to take quite a 
different course. Even drawing or painting is right only if 
one can do it from an inner motivation. The pictures ought 
to make themselves. If we make them by means of our con- 
scious mind, then it is magic, and we shall go the way of 
Goethe’s sorcerer’s apprentice. 

It is obvious that this Western example of the process 
of individuation is far removed from the perfected beauty 
of Eastern symbols, like those of Laotse, which likewise give 
expression to this process, and at which the greatest masters 
have laboured. We Westerners, in spite of our so-called cul- 
ture, are still barbarians and children when it comes to the 
psychic world. We have only just rediscovered the precious 
stone; we have still to polish it. We cannot yet compete with 
the intuitive clarity of Eastern vision. 

Here, then, is an example of the process of individua- 
tion, and one which is remarkable for its brevity and con- 


centration. It owes its special character to the unusual 
intelligence, education, and maturity of the patient in ques- 
tion. Usually the process runs a much longer course, and is 
far more involve!— particularly in the case of neurotic in- 

The ‘peculiar symbolic terminology that I have used in 
describing the patient’s fantasies is true to the mental images 
she actually produced. I admit that all this must sound very 
strange to a reader who is not accustomed to the peculiar 
language of intuitive processes. They are not directed by the 
rational mind, which in other ways is man’s most valuable 
achievement. They are spontaneous, dynamic, and bewil- 
deringly devious; they interfuse rational viewpoints with in- 
tuitive visions, and ethical values with emotional outbursts. 
The psychic activity involved in such a process is utterly 
undifferentiated; it is like a flow of lava in which all sorts of 
minerals gush forth in one glowing stream, welling up from 
the entrails of the earth. There is no use in rationalizing and 
intellectualizing this activity. Yet it is all-important to 
maintain the sense of mutual understanding between patient 
and doctor while the eruption lasts, so that the patient never 
loses the feeling of intelligent companionship. If he does lose 
contact with his directeur de conscience , he may fall a prey 
to panic inspired by the overwhelming strangeness of his 

As a matter of fact, it is the unexpected manifestations 
from the unconscious that on occasions do drive people 
crazy. In real psychoses we find the same mental contents, 
only in these cases they could not be assimilated by con- 
sciousness. Whoever finds himself attacked by such ideas, 
fantasies, and visions is either seized by an irresistible fear 
of becoming insane or thinks he is a genius. In either case he 
is at once isolated from his fellow beings, who are, of course, 
unable to understand what it is all about. The alienist can 
discern that something is wrong, and is justified in at least 


suspecting an unsound mental condition. A knowledge that 
this is so would hardly contribute to the patient’s peace of 
mind. If prudent and careful people, therefore, have such 
•experiences, they prefer to keep quiet about them, or to re- 
press them before they have fully developed. 

The dilemma of supposing oneself either a genius or a 
crank is, of course, nothing but a mistake. It is neither a 
stroke of genius — as a rule — nor a fit of insanity; it is simply 
a matter of formerly unconscious contents rising to the level 
of consciousness — a not infrequent experience. If a person 
can only keep a cool head, he is threatened neither by insanity 
nor by the curse of becoming a misunderstood genius. But 
to keep a cool head is just the difficulty, when something 
like hot lava is flowing through a system which otherwise 
appears to be quite well balanced. That is why people in 
such a predicament prefer to have somebody with them. 
Mere reasoning with them, or arguing against the facts, 
would not help them much; on the contrary, it would only 
be the repetition of an attempt they had already found to be 
ineffective. They need to feel a certain understanding and 
sympathy, perhaps even a certainty that they can share their 
crazy ideas with someone. This relieves them of the fear of 

It is this kind of understanding that I always try to 
bring to bear on the situation, and that explains the peculiar 
language which I am forced to use in such cases. But when 
the main shock is over, I always try — with the help of my 
patient — to see what has happened. When we have got thus 
far along the road, we give up the intuitive language and the 
symbolic terminology. We try to reduce the seemingly in- 
comprehensible events to rational sequences and to personal 
or impersonal origins. By such a procedure we hope to as- 
similate the experience, and to integrate it into the whole of 
the human personality. Such experiences should never leave a 
fatal sense of inferiority; rather, they should enrich both the 


44 the integration of the personality 

feelings and the mind, because they contain real life and the 
greatest values. They contain, as a matter of fact, just those 
values that were painfully lacking before the outburst oc- 
curred, and they add just those pieces to the puzzle of life 
which make the picture complete. It may still be an im- 
perfect picture in the eyes of man, but we may presume it 
to be satisfactory in the eyes of the unknown creator of the 

The difficulty of explaining such a case always lies in 
the fact that one ought to provide a minute biography of the 
patient, omitting none of the thousand trifles that make up 
human existence. Since this is obviously impossible, any de- 
scription or explanation must remain more or less unsatis- 
factory to those whose lives have yielded no similar experi- 
ences. Some people do not know that others exist who feel 
their lives to be progressive, and these people will find it 
quite unintelligible when I say that the case of my woman 
patient begins with the fact that she found herself "stuck.” 
But that is exactly what this woman felt: her life had 
progressed, and then came to a standstill — whatever that 
means. There had been a flowing river, and it ended in 
stagnation. There did not seem to be any possibilities ahead, 
at least none that she could see. There seemed to be a snag 
somewhere that was holding her back. Something seemed to 
call to her from the past, perhaps from afar, from a remote 
place somewhere in her personal history. She followed the 
call. And since her mother (very often the representative of 
the past) was long since dead, she at least made the pilgrim- 
age to her mother’s country. There a peculiar thing hap- 
pened: she began to be fascinated by landscapes, so that she 
had to paint them. Obviously she found something in the 
landscape worth retaining. Instead of progressing, she re- 
gressed to her mother and to the country from which the 
mother had issued. 


Her first picture in Zurich, before she had seen me, 
caused a peculiar dissociation. While she was again painting 
a landscape, she had a fantasy that showed her caught in the 
earth. This fantasy amounts to a statement about her con- 
dition: her regression leads her first to her mother, then to 
her mother’s country, and eventually to the earth, in which 
the lower part of her body is caught. The mother represents 
her personal past. Her mother’s country must mean some- 
thing beyond the mother — perhaps the maternal ancestors; 
and the earth means something else again — presumably the 
cradle of Man. I have reasons for assuming that such symbols 
really point to psychical layers — to increasingly unconscious 
pre-stages of individual consciousness. "Mother” refers to 
childhood and thus to the origins of individual conscious- 
ness; "Mother’s Country,” to ancestral psychical conditions; 
"Earth,” to a layer of collective unconsciousness peculiar to 
man in general and presumably also to animals. I would, 
therefore, call such a regression a "descent into the collective 
unconscious,” that region of the psyche which appears vastly 
older than the individual’s personal life. Such a descent into 
the collective unconscious appears always to precede a more 
or less intense activation of the unconscious. 

Thus far, there is nothing unique about this particular 
case: it simply exemplifies a consciousness that has lived in 
truly modern fashion, quite out of touch with the uncon- 
scious. Under such conditions the earth becomes fascinating 
and magical, since it stands for the unknown contents of 
man’s unconscious. The earth, underlying and supporting the 
visible space above it, is indeed an apt symbol for the collec- 
tive unconscious as the basis of consciousness. However, we 
have not exhausted the meaning of this fantasy. 

The vision states that man’s lower body is caught in the 
earth. The "lower part” is the basis of consciousness, the 
unconscious. The earth, therefore, symbolizes fertility — the 
fertile part of the human psyche. This is perhaps why the 


rocks in the picture remind us of seeds. When I told my 
patient to use a hieroglyph to denote the human figure, 
which defied her inexperienced hand, she instantly chose 
the globe or circle already suggested by the egglike boulders. 

From ancient times the circle or globe has been a symbol 
of completeness, perfection, and totality. In Plato’s Timceus 
the anima mundi, or universal soul, is spherical, as are also 
the hermaphroditic primal beings of the Symposium. The 
same idea predominates in speculative philosophy throughout 
the Middle Ages. 

Now it is, to say the least, a curious fact that a person 
who was not deeply read in the past should spontaneously 
produce an idea identical with one of the guiding notions of 
mediaeval philosophy and expressing exactly the same under- 
lying thought. The alchemistic idea of the all-round being, 
the so-called rotundum, represents the materia prima and its 
final product, the philosopher’s stone. A text of the first 
century a.d. speaks of "the stone that contains a pneuma” 
(spirit) and of the Royal Art as the attempt to set it free 
(pneuma = nous = mind) . This spirit was identified as 
Mercury or quicksilver. I must repeat that my patient had 
no knowledge of alchemy and least of all of the significance 
of its most baffling mystery: the identity of quicksilver and 
mind. The old alchemistic treatises dwell a great deal also 
upon the seed buried in the earth, from which it shall rise 
again in the form of the philosophical gold. The mercurial 
seed was symbolized by the serpent that formed a circle by 
biting its own tail. As such it was called ouroboros, the tail 
eater. In all this we can find a remarkable analogy to the 
main contents of the first picture. 

In the second picture occurs the liberation of the seed 
by the aid of a stroke of lightning. In alchemy it was not 
lightning, 'but a sword, that divided the egg containing the 
seed, the sperma or semen mercurii. The emphasis on the 
grey colour has its alchemistic parallel in the fact that the 


materia prima was "unseemly.” It was therefore called “lead” 
or plumbum philosophicum. The division of the alchemistic 
egg produced a pair of opposed forces, usually regarded as 
the male and female principles. The "floating in the sky,” 
also, has its bearing upon the alchemistic "sublimation” and 
upon the fact that the ultimate product, the philosopher’s 
stone, was thought of as a living, winged, and hermaphro- 
ditic being of ethereal and luminous nature. 

The dream of the golden serpent contains an anticipa- 
tion of the patient’s own development: she will be assimilated 
by the mercurial serpent, the totality ot her own psyche. 
This obviously means that she will not overcome the uncon- 
scious psyche buried in the earth, but that the latter will 
devour her, thus producing a different being formed from 
the conjunction of her conscious and unconscious existence. 
This new personality is presumably hinted at in the former 
dream by the number 12, which stands for the "greatest 

I should mention the fact that my patient had been to 
some extent influenced by Swedenborgianism, which presents 
the world in the guise of the homo maximus. Being devoured 
by the serpent could mean being devoured by the anima 
mundi. Swedenborg was not a real alchemist, but he was 
influenced by the mediaeval philosophy of nature and had at 
one time partially succumbed to a tragic invasion of the 
unconscious; I refer to the psychotic attack during his stay 
in London, for which there is unmistakable evidence in his 
own diary. I will not deny that Swedenborg’s peculiar mental 
condition had an influence on the general conscious attitude 
of my patient. But anyone with a sufficient knowledge of 
Swedenborg’s chief writings will know that it is very un- 
likely that he could have infected my patient with alche- 
mistic philosophy or that she could have reproduced it by 

The actual "conjunction” (again an important alchemis- 


tic concept) is represented in the fourth picture. There we 
have the union of the sphere, representing totality, with the 
black serpent, which she cannot help identifying with the 
principle of evil, the devil. The devil is here depicted as a 
principle opposed to trinity. This is, of course, a Christian 
idea that found its place in mediaeval philosophy. 1 

An alchemistic philosopher of the sixteenth century, 
Gerardus Dorneus, 2 was deeply concerned with the misdeeds 
of the number 4 in a trinitarian world. He was just as much 
upset by the fact that totality cannot exclude the black sub- 
stance of evil. He tried desperately to reason away the possi- 
bility in the good world of the Trinity of a painful conflict 
caused by the inevitable admixture of the serpens duplex 
cornua quatuor erigens — the dual serpent erecting the four 
horns (of the quaternity over against the Trinity) . He could 
not help naively following the general human inclination to 
avoid conflict by ignoring the dark side of one’s own nature. 
Yet in human life there is no totality that is not based upon 
the conflict of opposites. 

The quaternity in alchemy, incidentally, was usually 
expressed by the four colours of the old painters, mentioned 
in a fragment of Heraclitus: red, black,' yellow, and white; 
or in diagrams as the four points of the compass. In modern 
times the unconscious usually chooses red, blue (instead of 
black) , yellow or gold, and green (instead of white) . The 
quaternity is merely another expression of totality. These 
colours embrace the whole of the rainbow. The alchemists 
said that the appearance of the cauda pavonis, the peacock’s 
tail, was a sign that the process was coming to a successful 

The last picture by my patient contains these colours 
in a balanced arrangement, expressing her acceptance of the 
quaternity. The hitherto ignored unconscious, the “lower 
part of man,” had been admitted to her overt psychic life by 


on act of submission in which the ego-consciousness yielded 
.supremacy to a superior totality. 

Such a submission means the recognition that man has 
two sides of such equal importance that they cannot become 
reconciled; their conflict has to be suffered. The cross of the 
quaternity is unavoidable and indispensable if we are to con- 
tinue our pilgrimage through life. If we prefer not to liberate 
the spirit buried in the earth, dormant in the stone, we get 
stuck in the earth, caught in an unconscious fascination by 
material conditions. 

The whole modern religious problem seems to be con- 
tained in this short series of pictures. 

The fact that spontaneous imagination makes such tell- 
ing use of alchemistic symbolism is rather startling to anyone 
who has a knowledge of mediaeval alchemy. The patient’s 
fantasy-pictures are just as if an ancient alchemist were at 
work — one of that number who have left us illustrated 
manuscripts, often consisting only of pictures, like the 
famous Mutus Liber of 1677. Those pictures try to express 
the seemingly inexhaustible mystery of transmutation by 
means of a symbolism that is only partly traditional. Often 
enough the expression is highly individual and closely re- 
sembles the pictures produced today by people who are 
presumably working under similar mental conditions. 

Perhaps it is well to admit that there were naturally a 
great many alchemists who thought that they were learning 
no more than to make gold. But "making gold” was at the 
same time taken in an allegorical sense by the alchemistic 
philosophers; they understood by it a spiritual transmuta- 
tion, or what we would today call a psychological trans- 
formation or readjustment. When he is faced with a 
transformation of this kind, man always unconsciously 
chooses such symbolism. And the reason for this choice does 
not lie in the fact that our ancestors of three or four cen- 



turies ago thought largely in terms of alchemy. On the con- 
trary, our ancestors thought as we do today because they 
found themselves in the same psychic predicament, or at 
least in a predicament comparable to our modern religious 

As a ipatter of fact, history records the same kind of 
thought from almost two thousand years ago. There are 
peculiar parallels to alchemistic ideas in certain passages of 
the. Gospel of St. John and in the baptismal rite. 8 The same 
holds true of Taoist alchemy in China, and of certain 
philosophical systems in India called "The Quicksilver Sys- 
tems.” It is difficult to prove that these Eastern systems had 
any influence on the nearly contemporary philosophy of the 
West, and it is equally difficult to see how a modern person 
with the usual education in science could arrive at a correct 
use of alchemistic symbolism. If my woman patient were 
the only one who had produced such symbols, I should not 
be citing her case here. But I have seen numbers of similar 
cases. One could almost call the phenomenon a regular occur- 
rence, though it is little known — and for obvious reasons. 

The most sensible way of explaining such parallelism is 
by resorting to the hypothesis of the collective unconscious 
— of a universal similitude or identity of the basic structure 
of the human psyche. It seems likely that the collective un- 
conscious contains a number of patterns, “archetypes,” 
common to the whole of humanity. We must suppose that, 
under similar conditions, they function in the same way 
regardless of place and time, and that they produce the same 
ideas regardless of tradition. I assume, therefore, that my 
patients would have produced "alchemistic” symbolism even 
if alchemy had never existed. It is, in- a way, true that it has 
never existed for us, since modern ignorance of alchemistic 
philosophy is so profound that it amounts to a complete 
break in historical continuity. Who in our days would ever 
identify quicksilver with spirit or mind? Though an astrol- 


oger might interpret Mercury as mind, yet, even to an 
astrologer the planet Mercury would have lost its connota- 
tion of quicksilver; there is no longer any apparent corre- 
spondence between the metal and the planet. It would be 
just as unlikely to occur to anyone as the equation of Venus 
with copper, or of Saturn with lead. And the identity of the 
serpent to quicksilver, so dear to the ancient alchemist, is 
entirely lost to modern thought. 

I have emphasized the fact that my patient was riot 
acquainted with the peculiar symbolism of ancient alchemy. 
I should add that, when she came to me, I myself had no 
knowledge of the ideas I have just mentioned. As a matter 
of fact, it was this very case that led me to the study of 
alchemy. Therefore, it is impossible that I could have sug- 
gested such ideas to my patient, even unconsciously. 

As a whole, this case offers a good, though brief, ex- 
ample of a symbolic series typical for certain phases of what 
I call the process of individuation. Before considering the 
subject in more detail, it will be wise to take up the concept 
of the collective unconscious, and to discuss some of the "fig- 
ures” to be found in it. 


I. The reader will find ample material about the problem of 3 and 4-— the trinity 
and the quaternity — in later parts of this book. I should like to call his attention again 
to my Terry Lectures (see Chapter One, note xo) where I have also dealt with this 

a. De Tenrbrh contra Naturam et Vita brevi . Theatr. Chem., 1 602, Vol. I. 
Cf. p. $24 et seq. 

3. I have pointed out these analogies in an essay, *'The Vision* of Zosimos.** 
Zurich: Eranos-Jabrbuch, 193 7. 


Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious 

The hypothesis of the collective unconscious belongs to 
the class of ideas that people at first find strange, but soon 
come to possess and use as familiar conceptions. This has 
been the case with the general notion of the unconscious. 
When the philosophic idea of the unconscious, in the form 
presented chiefly by Carus and von Hartmann, had gone 
down under the overwhelming wave of materialism and 
empiricism without leaving any traces of moment, it timidly 
reappeared in the domain of a medical psychology that 
shared the aims of natural science. 

At first the concept of the unconscious was limited, and 
denoted the state of subliminal or forgotten contents. Even 
with Freud, who makes the unconscious — at least metaphori- 
cally — take the stage as an active subject, it is really nothing 
but the gathering place of forgotten and suppressed con- 
tents, and has significance as a function only thanks to these. 
With Freud, accordingly, the unconscious is exclusively of a 
personal nature, although, on another side, he was aware of 
its archaic and mythological thought-forms. 

A more or less superficial layer of the unconscious is 
undoubtedly personal. I call it the personal unconscious. 
Yet this personal unconscious appears to rest upon a deeper 
layer that does not derive from personal experience and 
achievement but is inborn. This deeper layer I call the collec- 
tive unconscious. I have chosen the term "collective” because 
this part of the unconscious is not individual, but universal; 
in contrast to the personal psyche, it has contents and modes 


of behaviour that are more or less the same everywhere and 
in all individuals. The collective unconscious, so far as we 
know, is self-identical in all Western men and thus con- 
stitutes a psychic foundation, superpersonal in its nature, 
that is present in every one of us. 

Any kind of psychic existence can be recognized only 
by the presence of contents that can be made sufficiently 
conscious for recognition. We can, therefore, speak of an 
unconscious only in so far as we are able to point out its 
contents. The contents of the personal unconscious consti- 
tute the personal and private side of psychic life. They are 
chiefly the so-called feeling-toned complexes. The contents 
of the collective unconscious, on the other hand, are the so- 
called archetypes. 

The term "archetype” derives from St. Augustine. The 
term is an explanatory paraphrase of the Platonic elSos. For 
our purposes this designation is appropriate and helpful, for 
it tells us that with the collective unconscious contents we 
are dealing with ancient or, better yet, with primordial types 
— that is to say, with images impressed upon the mind since 
of old. The phrase "representations collectives,” which Levy- 
Bruhl uses to denote the symbolic figures of the primitive 
view of the world, could easily be applied to the unconscious 
contents as well, since we are actually dealing with the same 
thing. Primitive tribal lore treats of archetypes that are 
modified in a particular way. To be sure, these archetypes 
are no longer contents of the unconscious, but have already 
changed into conscious formulas that are taught according 
to tradition, generally in the form of esoteric teaching. This 
last is a typical mode of expression for the transmission of 
collective contents originally derived from the unconscious. 

Another well-known expression of the archetype is 
m£th and fable. But here also we are dealing with conscious 
and specifically moulded forms that have been handed on, 
relatively unchanged, through long periods of time. It is 

J4 the integration of the person ality 

thus only indirectly that the concept of the archetype fits 
the representations collectives, for it properly designates the 
psychic content that has as yet been subjected to no con- 
scious treatment and so represents an immediate, psychic 
actuality. There is a considerable difference between such an 
archetype and the formula that has become historic or has 
been elaborated. Especially on the higher levels of esoteric 
teaching, the archetypes appear in a form that usually re- 
veals in an unmistakable way the elements of judgement and 
valuation introduced by conscious elaboration. On the other 
hand, their immediate manifestation, as it confronts us in 
dreams and visions, is much more natural, less understand- 
able or more naive than in the myth, for example. In this 
respect the fairy tale is, no doubt, much truer to nature. 

What the word archetype means in the nominal sense is 
made sufficiently clear when we have pointed out the occur- 
rence of archetypes in myth, esoteric teaching, and fairy tale. 
But if we try to establish on psychological ground just what 
an archetype is, the matter becomes more complicated. In 
mythological research, we have contented ourselves until 
now with solar, lunar, meteorological, vegetal, and other com- 
parisons. But we have almost completely refused to see that 
mjths are first and foremost psychic., manifestations that 
represent the nature of the psyche. The mind of the primi- 
tive is little concerned with an objective explanation of 
obvious things, but has an imperative need or, rather, its 
unconscious psyche has an irresistible urge to assimilate all 
experience through the outer senses into inner, psychic hap- 
pening. The primitive is not content to see the sun rise and 
set; this external observation must at the same time be a 
psychic event — that is, the sun in its course must represent 
the fate of a god or hero who dwells, in the last Analysis, 
nowhere else than in the psyche of man. 

All the mythologizecLoccurrences of nature, such as 


summer and winter, the phases of the moon, the rainy sea- 
sons, and so forth, are anything but allegories of these same 
objective experiences, nor are they to be understood as “ex- 
planations” of sunrise, sunset, and the rest of the natural 
phenomena. They are, rather, symbolic expressions for the 
inner and unconscious psychic drama that becomes accessible 
to human consciousness by way of projection — that is, mir- 
rored in the events of nature. This projection is' so thorough- 
going that it has taken several thousand years of culture to 
separate it in some measure from the outer object. 

In the case of astrology, indeed, this age-old intuitive 
science came actually to be stamped with heresy because men 
had not succeeded in making the psychological description 
of personal character independent of the stars. "Whoever to- 
day still — or again — believes in astrology succumbs almost 
as a rule to the old, superstitious acceptance of the influence 
of the stars. And yet anyone who can calculate a horoscope 
should know that, since the days of the blessed Hipparchus 
of Alexandria, the vernal equinox has been arbitrarily fixed 
at zero degrees of the Ram, and that every horoscope is 
therefore sixty degrees out of reckoning with reference to 
the influence of the stars, the vernal equinox having gradu- 
ally advanced, since then, to the last degrees of the Fishes, 
thanks to the precession of the equinox! 

Primitive man impresses us so strongly with his sub- 
jectivity that we really should have’ surmised in the first 
place that myths are related to psychic happening. Every 
analogy to nature which he makes is essentially the language 
and outer dress of an unconscious psychic process. But in the 
fact that the latter is unconscious we have the explanation 
why man has thought of everything else except the psyche. 
People have simply not known that the psyche contains all 
the images that have ever given rise to myths, and that our 
unconscious is an acting and suffering subject with an inner 


drama that primitive man rediscovers, by way of analogy, in 
the processes of nature both great and small. 

"In thine own breast dwell the stars of thy fate,” says 
Seni to Wallenstein — a dictum that would do ample justice 
to all astrology, if we knew even a little something about 
this secret of the heart. But for this, so far, men have had 
little understanding. Nor do I dare to assert that the matter 
stands any better today. 

Every tribal teaching is sacred-dangerous, and therefore 
absolute. All esoteric teachings try to grasp the unseen hap- 
pening of the psyche, and all assert their own final validity. 
Whatever is true of this primitive lore is even more uncon- 
ditionally true of the ruling world religions. They contain 
what was originally the hidden knowledge of revelation and 
have set forth the secrets of the psyche in glorious images. 
Their temples and their sacred writings proclaim in image 
and word the prescript hallowed from of old and accessible 
to every believing disposition, every receptive outlook, and 
every last -elaboration of thought. Indeed, we are forced to 
say that the more beautiful, the more grandiose, the more 
comprehensive is the image that has come into being and 
been handed on, so much the farther is it removed from our 
experience. Nowadays we can feel our way into it and per- 
ceive something of it, but the original experience is lost. 

Why, indeed, is psychology the youngest of all the 
sciences of experience? Why have we not long ago discovered 
the unconscious and salvaged its treasures of eternal images? 
Simply because we had a Christian formula for all the things 
of the psyche — one that is far more beautiful and compre- 
hensive than direct experience. Though for many persons 
the Christian view of the world has paled in its turn, the 
symbolic treasure rooms of the East are still full of wonders 
that can nourish for a long time to come the passion for 
show and new clothes. And what is more, these images — be 
they Christian or Buddhistic or anything else — are lovely, 


mysterious, and full of presentiment. To be sure, the more 
we are accustomed to them the more has constant usage 
polished them smooth, so that what remains of them is banal 
superficiality, clothed in almost senseless paradoxes. The 
mystery of the virgin birth, or the oneness of the Son with 
the Father, or the Trinity which is no triad, no longer lends 
wings to any philosophical fantasy. They have become mere 
objects of belief. 

It is not surprising that the religious need, the believing 
mind, and the philosophical speculation of the cultured 
European feel themselves attracted to the symbols of the 
East — the grandiose conceptions of divinity in India and the 
abysms of Taoistic philosophy in China — just as once before 
the heart and mind of the Graeco-Roman were gripped by 
Christian ideas. There are many Europeans who surrendered 
so completely to the influence of the Christian symbol that 
they were enmeshed in the neurosis of a Kierkegaard; and 
others, again, whose relation to God, owing to a progressive 
impoverishment of symbolism, developed into an unbearably 
refined I-you relation. It is not surprising that such persons 
later succumbed to the magic of the fresh strangeness of 
Eastern symbols. This surrender is no defeat, but rather bears 
witness to the receptiveness and vitality of the religious 
sense. We can observe the same thing in the Oriental man of 
education, who not seldom feels himself drawn in the same 
way to the Christian symbol, and even develops &n enviable 
understanding of it. 

That people succumb to these eternal images is an en- 
tirely normal matter. It is for this very purpose that the 
images came into being. They are intended to attract, to 
convince, fascinate, and overpower. They are created out of 
the primal stuff of revelation, and portray the first-hand 
experience of divinity that every revelation contains. Thus 
they always lead men to premonition while defending them 
against experience. For these images do not stand isolated like 


volcanoes, but, thanks to a labour of the human spirit often 
centuries long, have been moulded into a comprehensive 
system of thought ascribing an order to the world, into an 
ethical regulation of human actions, and into a mighty, far- 
spread and ancient institution called church or religion.,, 

I can best illustrate my meaning by the example of a 
Swiss mystic and hermit, the blessed brother Nicholas von 
der Flue. His outstanding religious experience was the so- 
called vision of threefoldness, which preoccupied him to 
such an extent that he painted it, or had it painted, on the 
wall of his cell. The vision is represented in a contemporary 
painting preserved in the parish church at Sachseln. It is a 
mandala , 1 divided six ways, whose centre is the crowned 
countenance of God. Now we know that Brother Nicholas 
made researches into the nature of his vision with the aid of 
the illustrated booklet of a German mystic, and struggled to 
get his original experience into tangible form. He occupied 
himself with it for years. This is what I call the "treatment” 
of the symbol. Reflection upon the nature of the symbol led 
necessarily to the conclusion that he must have gazed upon 
the holy threefoldness itself — that is, upon the summum 
bonum, eternal love. The glorified representation in Sachseln 
actually corresponds to this idea. 

But the original experience was wholly different. For, 
in the ecstasy of the blessed brother, such a terrible sight was 
revealed to. him that his own countenance was so changed 
that people were alarmed and grew afraid of him. What he 
had really seen was a countenance full of dreadful anger, 
which shook him to the core. 

This vision, undoubtedly fearful and highly perturbing, 
which had burst like a volcano upbn his harmless religious 
outlook without any introduction on the part of dogma and 
with no exegetical commentary — this vision must have re- 
quired a long labour of adaptation before it was changed 
into the thing that confronts us in his later years, namely, a 


vision of-chreefoldness. He came to terms with this experi- 
ence on the basis of dogma, at that time as firm as a rock; 
and the dogma showed its power of assimilation in this, 
that, with a saving grace, it transformed something fearfully 
alive into the lovely clarity of the idea of the Trinity. But 
the reconciliation might have taken place on quite a different 
basis provided by the vision itself with its uncanny actuality 
— much to the disadvantage of the brother himself, who 
would then have become not a saint, but a heretic, and 
would perhaps have ended his life at the stake. 

This short example illustrates for us the incomparably 
useful function of the dogmatic symbol: it protects a person 
from a direct experience of God as long as he does not mis- 
chievously expose himself. But if, like Brother Nick, he 
leaves home and family, lives too long alone and gazes too 
deeply into the dark mirror, then the awful event of the 
meeting may befall him. Yet even then the traditional symbol, 
come to full flower through the centuries, may operate like 
a healing draught and divert the fatal incursion of the living 
godhead into the hallowed spaces of the church. 

Jacob Boehme, too, must have met with a quite similar 
experience. He also knows a God of "the fire of wrath,” a 
true Absconditus. But he was able to bridge the deeply felt 
contradiction by means of the Christian formula of Father- 
Son, and to embody it speculatively in his view of the world, 
which, though heretical, was yet in all essential points Chris- 
tian. Otherwise he would have become a dualist. Neverthe- 
less, this contradiction has left obvious traces in his mandala, 
which is appended to the forty questions concerning the soul 
and which pictures the nature of divinity, for the mandala 
is divided into a light and a dark half. The dogmatic image 
has rendered him, also, excellent service, by sparing him the 
evil fate of Angelus Silesius, who fled from his own vision 
into the very lap of the Catholic Church, and had to coun- 
terbalance this fault with a severe neurosis. 



Dogma advises us not to have an unconscious. There- 
fore, the Catholic way of life is completely unaware of 
psychological problems in this sense. The whole life of the 
collective unconscious has been absorbed without remainder, 
so to speak, in the dogmatic archetypes, and flows like a 
well-controlled streim in the symbolism of ritual and of the 
church calendar. This is not a manifestation of the individual 
psyche. It never was, because the Christian Church was 
preceded by the Graeco-Roman mysteries, and these reach 
back into the grey mists of neolithic prehistory. Mankind 
has never lacked powerful images to lend magic aid against 
the uncanny, living depths of the world and of the psyche. 
The figures of the unconscious have always been expressed 
in protecting and healing images and thus expelled from the 
psyche into cosmic space. 

The iconoclasm of the Reformation, however, quite 
literally made a breach in the bulwarks of the holy pictures 
and, ever since, one after another has crumbled away. They 
became dubious, for they collided with awakening reason. 
Besides, people had long since forgotten what they meant. 
Or had they really forgotten? Could it be that men had 
never really known what they meant, and that it first oc- 
curred to Protestant mankind in recent times that we 
actually have no conception of what it means to believe in 
the virgin birth or in the complexities of the Trinity? It 
almost seems as if these images had just lived, and as if their 
living existence had simply been accepted without question 
and without reflection, much as everyone decorates Christ- 
mas trees and hides Easter eggs without ever knowing what 
these customs mean. 

The fact is that archetypal images are so significant in 
themselves that people never think of asking what they 
mean. That the gods die from time to time is due to man’s 
discovery that they do not mean anything, that they are 
good-for-nothings made by human hands, fashioned out of 


wood and stone. In reality, man has thus discovered only 
this: that up till then he had not achieved one thought con- 
cerning these images. 

The history of the development of Protestantism is one 
of chronic iconoclasm. One wall after another fell. And 
the work of destruction was not too difficult, either, when 
once the authority of the church had been shattered. We all 
know how, in large things as in small, in general as well as in 
particular, piece after piece collapsed, and how the alarming 
impoverishment of symbolism that is now the condition of 
our life came about. The power of the church has gone with 
that loss of symbolism, too — a fortress that has been robbed 
of its bastions and casemates, a house whose walls have been 
plucked away, that is exposed to all the winds of the world 
and to all dangers. 

Though properly speaking it is a pitiful collapse which 
offends our sense of history, the disintegration of Protestant- 
ism into nearly four hundred denominations is yet an in- 
fallible sign of life, and shows that the restlessness is growing. 
The Protestant with nothing left but the historical figure of 
Christ, a much-debated idea of God, and a compulsive faith, 
in which — Heaven knows! — he has very poor success, is 
actually thrust forth into a state of defencelessness at which 
men must shudder who live close to nature and to the past. 
To be sure, the enlightened, most reasonable Protestant con- 
sciousness knows, and wishes to know, nothing about this 
state of affairs, and yet is quietly looking elsewhere for what 
has been lost to Europe. Men search for the effective images, 
the modes of viewing things that satisfy the restlessness of 
heart and mind; and they find the treasures of the East. 

There is no objection to this, taken in and for itself. No 
one compelled the Romans to import Asiatic cults in bulk. If 
the Christianity that is called hostile to art had really not 
suited the Germanic peoples, they could easily have rejected 


it again when the prestige of the Roman legions had waned. 
The American Negroes, also, will not be kept away from 
their voodoo worship, and the Pueblo Indians celebrate their 
buffalo and snake dances quite merrily in the fold of the 
church. Still, Christianity in Europe has grown into some- 
thing that its founder might well have wondered at had he 
lived to see it; and the Christianity of Negroes and Indians 
might well be the occasion for historical reflections. Then 
why should not the West assimilate Eastern forms? The 
Romans also went to Eleusis, to Samothrace and Egypt to be 
initiated. There even seems to have been a regular tourist 
trade of this sort in Egypt. 

The gods of Hellas and Rome perished from the same 
disease as did our Christian symbols; men discovered then, 
as they do today, that they, had no thoughts whatever on 
the subject. On the other hand, the gods of the strangers 
still had unexhausted mana. Their names were curious and 
unintelligible, and their deeds portentously dark — a very dif- 
ferent matter from the trite scandalmongery of Olympus. 
The Asiatic symbols were at least not understandable, and 
so they were not banal like the long-accustomed gods. That 
people accepted the new as unreflectively as they had re- 
jected the old did not become a problem at that time. 

Is it becoming a problem today? Will we be able to 
clothe ourselves, as though in a new garment, with ready- 
made symbols grown on foreign soil, saturated with foreign 
blood, spoken in a foreign language, nourished by a foreign 
culture, interwoven in a foreign history, and so resemble a 
beggar who wraps himself in kingly raiment, a king who 
disguises himself as a beggar? No doubt, this is possible. Or 
are we not commanded, somewhere; to hold no masquerade, 
but perhaps even to make our own garment ourselves? 

I believe that history is capable of anything. There 
exists no folly that men have not tried out. And if anything 


can be made cheap, then those who would like to make it 
dear are to be counted among the very stupid. At this point 
I must take a subjective tone and admit that I belong to 
those who suffer from convictions. Thus, for example, I am 
convinced that Protestant man has not in vain been de- 
spoiled of his own development, and made to go naked. This 
development has an inner consistency. Everything that pre- 
sented him with no thought-content has been torn from 
him. If now he should go and cover his nakedness with the 
gorgeous dress of the Orient, like the theosophists, he would 
be untrue to his own history. A man does not work his way 
down to beggarhood and then pose as an Indian king on the 
stage. Finally, it is not necessary to go as far as theosophy 
does. There are more modest substitutes for the loss of Chris- 
tian symbolism. But none the less it is a substitute, a mere 
exchange of symbols, in which the question remains dark as 
to just what original experiences are expressed by the symbol. 

It would seem to me far better to confess strong- 
mindedly to the spiritual poverty of a want of symbols than 
to feign a possession of which we can in no case be the 
spiritual heirs. We are, indeed, the rightful heirs of Christian 
symbolism-, but this inheritance we have somehow squan- 
dered. We have let the house that our fathers built fall to 
pieces, and now we try to break into Oriental palaces that 
our fathers never knew. Why do we not rather say, “We are 
poor,” and for once deal earnestly with our famous belief in 
God that people are always talking about? But whenever it 
comes to a pinch, we stop the dear Lord halfway and wish 
to do it ourselves, not only as though we were afraid, but 
because we actually have a terrible fear that things would 
then go wrong. At bottom we share the view of Napoleon: 
"God is always on the side of the best artillery.” And since 
the dear Lord does not make cannon, we just stick to our 
own priggery. The fear is anything but unjustified, for when 
God is nearest the danger is greatest. It is dangerous to con- 

64 the integration of the personality 

fess to spiritual poverty, for whoever is poor has cravings 
and whoever craves draws his fate upon himself. A Swiss 
proverb puts it drastically: "Behind every rich man stands 
a devil, and behind every poor man — two.” 

As the Christian vow of worldly poverty turned the 
senses from the good things of the world, so spiritual poverty 
seeks to renounce the false riches of the spirit. It wishes to 
retreat not only from the sorry remnants of a great past 
that call themselves today the Protestant Church, but also 
from all the allurements of exotic reputation, in order to 
dwell with itself where, in the cold light of consciousness, 
the barrenness of the world extends even to the stars. 

We have already inherited this poverty from our 
fathers. I well remember my confirmation lesson at the 
hands of my own father. The catechism bored me unspeak- 
ably. Once I turned the leaves of the little book in order to . 
find something of interest, and my glance fell on the para- 
graphs about the Trinity. That interested me, and I waited 
impatiently till the instruction had advanced to that section. 
But when the longed-for lesson had arrived, my father said, 
"We will skip this section; I cannot make anything out of it 
myself.” With that my last hope was laid in the grave. 

While our intellect has been achieving colossal things, 
our spiritual dwelling has fallen to pieces. We are thoroughly 
convinced that even with the latest and largest reflecting 
telescope, now being built in America, men will discover 
behind the farthest nebulas no empyrean where fire and 
water intermingle; and we know that our sight will wander 
despairingly through the emptiness of immeasurable exten- 
sion. Nor are matters improved when mathematical physics 
reveals to us the world of the infinitesimally small — swarms 
of electrons into all eternity! In the end we dig up the 
wisdom of all times and peoples and find that everything 
most dear and precious has already been ^id in the most 
winning and lovely words. Like yearning children we stretch 


out our hands to it and suppose that, if we could grasp it, we 
would possess it too. But what we do possess is no longer 
valid, and our hands grow weary from reaching out, for 
riches lie everywhere as far as sight extends. All these pos- 
sessions turn to water, and more than one magician’s appren- 
tice, has finally been drowned in these waters called up by 
himself — unless he first succumbed to the saving delusion 
that this wisdom was good and that was bad. From these 
adepts come those disturbing invalids who believe they have 
a prophetic mission; for, through the artificial sundering of 
true and false wisdom, there arises a cleft in the psyche, and 
from it a loneliness and craving like that of the alcoholic 
who always hopes to find companions in his vice. 

When our natural inheritance has been dissipated, then 
— to use the language of Heraclitus — all spirit has descended 
from its fiery heights; to be sure a different descensus spiritus 
sancti — every symbol is also prophetic. But when spirit be- 
comes heavy it turns to water, and baptism in fire is replaced 
by baptism in water. The magic formula of the priest still 
repeats this process in the night of the Sabbatium sanctum : 
"Descendat in hanc plenitudinem fontis virtus spiritus 
sancti ” and the inevitable has happened: the soul has turned 
to water, as Heraclitus says, and with Luciferian presump- 
tion the intellect has usurped the seat whereon the spirit 
once* throned. 

The spirit, indeed, may claim the patr'ts potestas over 
the soul, but not so the earth-born intellect, which is man’s 
sword or hammer, and not a creator of spiritual worlds, a 
father of the soul. 

The way of the soul in search of its lost father leads 
thus to the water, to the dark mirror that reposes at its 
bottom. Whoever has chosen the state of spiritual poverty, 
the true heritage of a Protestantism lived out consistently to 
the end, goes the way of the soul that leads to the water. 



And this water is no idle metaphor, but a living symbol 
created by the psyche itself. I can no doubt best illustrate 
this by a concrete example, and one will have to suffice: 

A Protestant theologian often dreamed the same dream: 
that he stood at the edge of an abyss with a deep valley 
below, and in it a dark lake. He knew in the dream that 
something had always prevented him from approaching the 
lake. This time he resolved to go to the water. As he ap- 
proached the shore an uncanny darkness fell, and a gust of 
wind suddenly rushed over the face of the water. Then fear 
seized him and he awoke. 

This dream illustrates natural symbolism. The dreamer 
descends into his own depths, and the way leads him to the 
mysterious water. And now there occurs the miracle of the 
pool of Bethesda: an angel descends and touches the water, 
which thus receives healing power. In the dream it is the 
wind 6 irvei Sirov 04\ei, the spirit that bloweth whither 
it listeth. Man’s descent to the water is needed to evoke the 
miracle of its coming to life. But the breath of the spirit 
that rushes over the dark water is uncanny; it is an unseen 
presence, a tremendum to which neither human expecta- 
tions nor arbitrary machinations have given life. It lives of 
itself, and a shudder strikes the man to whom spirit was 
always merely what he believes, what he makes himself, 
what is found in books, or what other people talk about. 
But when it happens spontaneously, then it is like an appari- 
tion, and primitive fear seizes the naive mind. The elders of 
the Elgonyi tribe in Kenya have described for me the activity 
of the god who comes by night, whom they call the "Maker 
of Fear.” "He comes to you,” they said, "like a cold gust of 
wind, and you shudder, or he goes whistling round about in 
the tall grass” — an African Pan who goes among the reeds 
in the haunted noon-hour, playing on his pipes and frighten- 
ing the shepherds. 

So it is that, in the dream, this breath of the pneuma has 


again frightened a pastor, a shepherd of the flock, who in 
the time of night-darkness trod the reed-grown water’s edge 
in the deep valley of the psyche. Yes, that erstwhile fiery 
spirit has come down to nature, to the trees and rocks and 
the waters of the psyche, like the old man in Nietzsche’s 
2 aratbustra, who, wearied of humankind, retired to the 
woods to growl with the bears in honour of the Creator. 

We must surely go the way of the waters, which always 
go downward, if we would salvage the treasure, the precious 
legacy of the father. In the Gnostic hymn of the soul, the 
son is sent forth by his parents to seek the precious pearl. It 
lies at the bottom of a deep spring, guarded by a dragon, in 
the land of the Egyptians — that lustful and drunken world 
of physical and mental riches. The son and heir sets out to 
fetch the jewel, but forgets himself and his duty in the orgies 
of Egyptian worldliness, until a letter from the father re- 
minds him what his duty is; he then goes forth to the water 
and dives into the dark depths of the spring, where he finds 
the pearl on the bottom, and finally offers it to the highest 

This hymn, ascribed to Bardesanes, dates from a time 
that resembled ours in more than one respect. Mankind 
looked and waited, and a wise man said to them, "Seek it in 
the water wherein it sank of yore.” 

As I wrote these lines, I received a letter from Van- 
couver from a person unknown to me. The writer is aston- 
ished about his dreams, which continually treat of water: 
"Almost every time I dream it is about water: either I am 
having a bath, or the water closet is overflowing, or a pipe is 
bursting, or my home has drifted down to the water’s edge, 
or the lavatory is overflowing, or I see an acquaintance about 
to sink into water, or I am trying to get out of water, or I 
am having a bath and the tub is about to overflow,” and so 

Water is the commonest symbol for the unconscious,. 



The lake in the valley is the unconscious, which in a certain 
sense lies beneath consciousness, so that it is often referred to 
as the subconscious, not infrequently with the unpleasant 
connotation of an inferior consciousness. The water is the 
valley-ghost, the water dragon of the Tao, whose nature 
resembles water — a yang embraced in the yin. Psychologi- 
cally, therefore, water means spirit that has become uncon- 
scious. Thus the dream of the theologian is quite right in 
saying that at the water he will be able to reattain the con- 
sciousness of the living spirit. 

This statement by the dream now meets with strong 
resistance from the side of consciousness, which knows of 
"spirit” only as something to be found on high. Spirit always 
comes from above. From below comes everything that is 
sordid and worthless. Spirit means highest freedom, a soar- 
ing over depths, a deliverance from the prison of the chthon- 
ian element. 

But water is earthly and tangible; it is also the fluid of 
the body ruled by impulse, blood and the flowing of blood, 
the odour of the beast, and corporeality weighted with emo- 
tion. The unconscious is the psyche that reaches from the 
daylight of a mentally and morally lucid consciousness down 
into the nerve system that for ages has been known as 
sympathetic. This does not support perception and muscular 
activity like the cerebrospinal system, and thus command 
surrounding space; it has no sense organs, but it maintains 
the equilibrium of life and — in mysterious ways, by co- 
excitement — not only imparts knowledge of the innermost 
nature of other living beings, but also radiates inner activity 
upon them. In this sense it is an exceedingly collective sys- 
tem, the actual basis of all participation mystique , while the 
cerebro-spinal function culminates in separating out the 
specificity of the ego, and always, through the medium of 
space, grasps surfaces and superficialities alone. The latter 


experiences everything as external, while the former experi- 
ences everything as from within. 

Now, the unconscious is commonly regarded as a kind 
of capsulated, personal intimacy — very nearly what the Bible 
designates as the heart and considers the source of all evil 
thoughts. In the chambers of the heart reside the wicked 
voices of the blood, quick anger and the weakness of the 
senses. But consciousness is chiefly an affair of the main lobes 
of the brain, that is to say, of the cerebrum, which sees 
everything separately and in isolation, and therefore sees the 
unconscious in this way, regarding it out and out as my 
unconscious. So people generally believe that whoever de- 
scends into the unconscious lands himself in the oppressive 
confinement of egocentric subjectivity, and exposes himself 
in this blind alley to the attack of all the ferocious beasts the 
cavern of the psychic underworld is supposed to harbour. 

The man who looks into the mirror of the waters does, 
indeed, see his own face first of all. Whoever goes to himself 
risks a confrontation with himself. The mirror does not 
flatter, it faithfully shows whatever looks into it; namely, 
the face we never show to the world because we cover it 
with the persona, the mask of the actor. But the mirror lies 
behind the mask and shows the true face. 

This confrontation is the first test of courage on the 
inner way, a test sufficient to frighten off most people, for 
the meeting with ourselves belongs to the more unpleasant 
things that may be avoided as long as we possess living sym- 
bol-figures in which all that is inner and unknown is pro- 
jected. The figure of the devil, in particular, is a most 
valuable and acceptable psychic possession, for as long as he 
goes about outside in the form of a roaring lion, we know 
where evil lurks; namely, in that incarnate Old Harry where 
it has been in this or that form since primeval times. With 
the rise of consciousness since the Middle Ages, to be sure, he 
has been considerably reduced in stature. But to take his 


place there are human beings to whom we gratefully resign 
our shadows. With what pleasure, for instance, we read 
newspaper reports of crime! A true criminal becomes a 
popular figure because he unburdens in no small degree the 
consciences of his fellow men, for now they know once more 
where evil is to be found. 

The meeting with oneself is the meeting with one’s own 
shadow. To mix a metaphor, the shadow is a tight pass, a 
narrow door, whose painful constriction is spared to no one 
who climbs down into the deep wellspring. But one must 
learn to know oneself in order to know who one is. For what 
comes after the door is, surprisingly enough, a boundless 
expanse full of unprecedented uncertainty, with apparently 
no inside and no outside, no above and no below, no here and 
no there, no mine and no thine, no good and no bad. It is the 
world of water, where everything living floats in suspension; 
where the kingdom of the sympathetic system, of the soul 
of everything living, begins; where I am inseparably this 
and that, and this and that are I; where I experience the 
other person in myself, and the other, as myself, experiences 

No, the unconscious is anything but a capsulated, per- 
sonal system; it is the wide world, and objectivity as open as 
the world. I am the object, even the subject of the object, in 
a complete reversal of my ordinary consciousness, where I 
am always a subject that has an object. There I find myself 
in the closest entanglement with the world, so much a part 
of it that I forget all too easily who I really am. "Lost in 
oneself” is a good phrase to describe this state. But this self 
is the world, if only a consciousness could see it. This is why 
we must know who we are. 

The unconscious no sooner touches us than we are it, in 
that we become unconscious of ourselves. This is the primal 
danger, instinctively known and an object of fear to primi- 
tive man, who himself stands upon the very brink of this 


pleroma. For his consciousness is still uncertain, and stands 
on tottering feet. It is still childish — has just emerged from 
the primal waters. A wave of the unconscious may easily roll 
over it, and he forgets who he was and does things in which 
he no longer recognizes himself. Primitives are wary of un- 
controlled emotions, because consciousness all too easily suc- 
cumbs to them and gives place to the state of possession. 

So man’s striving, in his primitive past, was turned to 
the fortification of consciousness. His rituals and .dogmatic 
conceptions served this purpose; they were dams and walls 
erected against the- dangers of the unconscious, the “perils 
of the soul.” Primitive culture consists, in the first place, in 
the laying of ghosts, the lifting of spells, the turning away of 
the evil omen, propitiation, and so forth. 

It is these walls, erected in primeval times, that later 
became the foundations of the church. It is also these walls 
that collapse when the symbols become weak with age. Then 
the waters rise, and inundating catastrophes burst upon 
mankind. The religious leader of the Taos pueblo said to me 
once, “The Americans should stop troubling our religion, 
for when this goes to ruin and we can no longer help the 
sun to cross the heavens, then the Americans and the whole 
world Will learn something within ten years; for then the 
sun will not rise any longer.” That is to say, night falls, the 
light of consciousness is extinguished, and the dark sea of 
unconsciousness bursts in. 

Whether primitive or not, mankind always stands upon 
the verge of those actions that it performs itself but does not 
control . The whole world wants peace, and the whole world 
prepares for war, to give but one example. Mankind is 
powerless against mankind, and gods, as they have ever 
done, show it the ways of fate. Today we call the gods 
"factors,” which comes from facere, “to make.” The makers 
stand behind the wings of the world-theatre. It is in great 
things as in small. In the realm of consciousness we are our 


own masters; we seem to be the factors themselves. But if 
we step through the door of the shadow we discover with 
fright that we are the objects of factors. 

This state of the problem is new, since all ages before 
ours believed in gods in some form or other. Only an un- 
paralleled impoverishment in symbolism could enable us to 
rediscover the gods as psychic factors, which is to say, as 
archetypes of the unconscious. No doubt, this discovery is 
hardly credible as yet. To be convinced, we need to have the 
experience which was sketched in the dream of the theolog- 
ian; only then is the self -activity of the spirit experienced 
across the waters. Since the stars have fallen from heaven, 
and our highest symbols have paled, a secret life holds sway 
in the unconscious. It is for this reason that we have a 
psychology today, and for this reason that we speak of the 

All this discussion would be superfluous in an age or 
culture that possessed symbols. For these are spirit from 
above; and at such a time', also, spirit is above. It would be a 
foolish and senseless undertaking for such people to wish to 
experience or investigate an unconscious that contains noth- 
ing but the silent, undisturbed sway of nature. But our 
unconscious conceals natural spirit, which is to say, spirit 
turned to water; and this spirit disturbs it. Heaven has 
become empty space to us, a fair memory of things that once 
were. But our heart glows, and secret unrest gnaws at the 
roots of our being. In the words of the Voluspd we may ask: 

"What does Wotan still mumble over Mimir’s head?” 

"Already the spring boils — ” 

Dealing with the unconscious has become a question of 
life for us. It is a matter of spiritual being or non-being. All 
those who have met with the experience suggested in the 
dream just referred to know that the treasure lies in the 
depths of the water and will try to salvage it. As they must 


never forget who they are, so they must never imperil their 
consciousness. They will keep their standpoint upon solid 
ground and will thus — to preserve the metaphor — become 
fishers who catch with hook and net what floats in the 
water. There may be consummate fools who do not under- 
stand what fishermen do, but these will not lose sight of the 
age-old meaning of their action, for the symbol of their 
craft is many centuries older than the fisher’s ring of the 
Pope, and their myth is still living in the unfaded story of 
the Holy Grail. But not every man is a fisher. Sometimes 
this figure is not fully developed; it is arrested at an early, 
instinctual stage, and then we have the fantasy image of a 
fish-otter or the like. 

Whoever looks into the water sees his own image, to be 
sure, but behind it living beings soon loom up, fishes, no 
doubt, harmless dwellers of the deep — harmless, if only the 
lake were not haunted. They are water-beings of a peculiar 
sort. Sometimes a nixie gets into the fisher’s net, a female, 
half -human fish. Nixies are entrancing beings: 

Half drew she him 
Half sank he down 
And nevermore was seen. 

The nixie is an early stage, still on the level of instinct, 
of a magical feminine being that I call the anima, the woman 
in a man of which I have spoken in the first chapter. Yet, 
since the collective unconscious is more than personal, so the 
anima is not always merely the feminine aspect of the indi- 
vidual man. It has an . archetypal aspect — "the eternal 
feminine” — which embodies an experience of woman far 
older than that of the individual. This anima i$ reflected, of 
course, in mythology and legend. It can be siren or wood 
nymph, Grace or Erlking’s daughter, lamia, or succubus, 
who infatuate young men and suck the life out of them. 

74 the integration of the personality 

The critic of morals will say that these figures are states 
of ardent longing and worthless fantasies in projected form. 
We cannot help granting a certain validity to this assertion. 
But is it the wh^le truth? Is the nixie nature really nothing 
but a product of moral laxity? Were there not such beings 
long ago, in an age when dawning human consciousness was 
still wholly bound to nature? Surely there were ghosts in 
forest and field and stream long before there existed any 
question of conscience. What is more, these beings were as 
much dreaded, so that their rather peculiar sexual charms 
are only relatively characteristic. Consciousness was then far 
simpler, and the ownership of the soul was ridiculously small. 
An unliihited amount of what we now consider an integral 
part of our own psychic being disports itself merrily for the 
primitive in projections reaching far and wide. 

The word "projection” is actually unsuitable, for noth- 
ing has been cast out of the psyche; rather, the psyche has 
attained its present complexity by a series of acts of intro- 
jection. Its complexity has Increased in proportion as nature 
has ceased to be animated by spirits. A weird nixie from long 
ago is today called "an erotic fantasy,” and it may compli- 
cate our psychic life in a painful way. It comes upon us, to 
be sure, just as a nixie might; what is more, it is like a 
feminine incubus, it changes into many shapes like a witch, 
and in general shows an unbearable independence that does 
not seem proper to a psychic content. On occasion it causes 
fascinations that rival the best bewitchment, or states of fear 
that are not outdone by any manifestation of the devil. It is 
a vexatious being that crosses our path in many transforma- 
tions and disguises, plays all kinds of tricks upon us, and 
causes happy and unhappy delusions, depressions and 
ecstasies, uncontrolled emotions, and so forth. Even in the 
state of reasonable introjection the nixie has not laid aside 
her roguery. The witch has not ceased to mix her vile potions 


of love and death, but her magic power has been refined into 
intrigue and self-deception, unseen, to be sure, yet none the 
less dangerous. 

But how do we dare to call this feminine elf the anima? 
Anima means soul, and should designate something very 
wonderful and immortal. But this was not always so. We 
must not forget that this lofty kind of soul is a dogmatic 
conception whose purpose is to bind by a spell and to capture 
something uncannily active and alive. The German word 
“Seele,” soul, is closely connected, through the Gothic form 
"saiwolo,” with the Greek word aidXos, which means “mov- 
ing,” “iridescent,” something like a butterfly — *P V XV in Greek 
— which reels drunkenly from flower to flower and lives on 
honey and love. In the Gnostic study of types, the S.v6puirot 
ipvxt-Kbs stands below the v vevpaTiKds, and finally there are 
also bad souls who must roast to all eternity in Hell. Even 
the quite innocent soul of the unbaptized, newborn babe is 
deprived of the contemplation of God, and thus has none of 
the substance akin to God. For the primitive, the soul is the 
magic breath of life, therefore anima or demonic flame. An 
uncanonical saying of the Master’s aptly declares, “Who is 
near unto me is near unto the fire.” In Heraclitus, the soul 
at the highest level is fiery and dry; in itself, 'I'vxh has the 
closest kinship with “cool breath” — \f/v\ 6s and yf/vxpbs mean 
cool and damp — and thus has affinity to water. 

Being that has soul is living being. Soul is the living 
in man, that which lives of itself and causes life: God 
breathed into Adam a living breath so that he should live. 
With cunning and playful deception the soul lures into life 
the inertia of matter that does not want to live. It creates 
belief in incredible things, in order that life should live. It 
is full of snares and traps in order that man should fall, 
should reach the earth, entangle himself there, and stay 
caught, in order that life should live. Were it not for the 
motion and the colour-play of the soul, man would suffocate 



and rot away in his greatest passion, idleness. A certain kind 
of reasonableness is its advocate, and a certain kind of moral- 
ity adds its blessing. To have soul is the wager of life, for the 
soul is a life-bestowing demon who plays his elfin game be- 
neath and above human existence, for which reason — in the 
realm of dogma — he is threatened and propitiated with su- 
perhuman punishments and blessings that go far beyond the 
possible deserts of human beings. Heaven and Hell are the 
fate of the soul and not of civil man, who, in his God-cre- 
ated nakedness and imbecility, would have no idea of what 
to do with himself in a heavenly Jerusalem. 

The anima is not the soul in the dogmatic sense; this is 
an apotropaic representation collective, but the anima is a 
natural archetype that satisfactorily subsumes every pro- 
nouncement of the unconscious and of the primitive mind 
that gave form to language and religion. The anima is a 
"factor” in the proper sense of the word. Man cannot make 
it; on the contrary, it is always the a priori element in 
moods, reactions, impulses and whatever else is spontaneous 
in psychic life. It is something that lives on its own account, 
that makes us live; it is a life behind consciousness that can- 
not be completely integrated with it, but from which, on the 
contrary, consciousness arises. For, in the last analysis, 
psychic life is for the greater part an unconscious life that 
embraces consciousness on all sides: a thought that is suffi- 
ciently obvious when once we have taken into account how 
much unconscious preparation is needed, for instance, to 
recognize a sense impression. 

Although it seems as if the whole of unconscious, 
psychic life could be ascribed to the anima, it is yet only 
one archetype among many. Therefore, it is not character- 
istic, out and out, for the life of the unconscious. It is only 
one of its aspects. This is already shown by the very fact 
that it has feminine gender. This fact in itself would be 


astonishing, if the feminine were not the most immediate 
opposite to the masculine. What is not-I or not-mas- 
’ culine is, therefore, most probably feminine; and it is also 
for this reason that the anima-image is always projected 
upon women. Either sex is inhabited by the opposite sex to 
a certain degree, for, biologically speaking, it is only the 
greater number of masculine genes that tips the scale in 
favour of the masculine sex. The smaller number of femi- 
nine genes forms a feminine character that usually remains 
unconscious because of its inferiority, yet always begins to 
function overtly when the specific masculinity has been 
damaged, as, for instance, by castration or through the ex- 
haustion of old age. 

With the archetype of the anima we enter the realm of 
the gods or of metaphysics, for everything in which the 
anima appears takes on the quality of the numen — that is, 
becomes unconditional, dangerous, taboo, magical. The 
anima is the serpent in the paradise of the harmless man 
with good resolutions and still better intentions. It affords 
the most convincing foundation for the prejudice against 
dealing with the unconscious, according to which moral in- 
hibitions will be destroyed and forces let loose that had better 
been left in the unconscious. For life in itself is not some- 
thing good; it is more than that, it is also evil. In that the 
anima wishes life it wishes good and bad. In the domain of 
elfin being, these categories do not exist. Not only the bodily 
life, but psychic life as well, has the impudence to get along 
without current morality — often much better so — and even 
to become healthier and more beautiful without it. 

The anima believes in the na\bv K&yadbv, the beautiful 
and the good, this being a primitive conception antedating 
the discovery of the opposition between aesthetics and morals. 
It took more than a thousand years of Christian differentia- 
tion to make it clear that the good is not beautiful, and the 
beautiful not necessarily good. The paradoxicalness of this 


marriage of concepts was no more obvious to the ancients 
than it was to the primitives. 

But the anima is conservative, and clings in a most ex- 
asperating fashion to the ways of earlier mankind. There- 
fore, it likes to appear in historic dress, with a predilection 
for Greece and Egypt. On this subject we should compare 
the classic anima-stories of Rider Haggard and Pierre 
Benoit. That dream of the Renaissance, the Ipnerotomachia 
of Polifilo, like Goethe’s Faust , reached far back into the 
classical world to find the precise word for the situation. 
The former found Queen Venus suitable; the latter, Trojan 
Helen. We will not increase the number of irreproachable 
crown witnesses, for these offer us matter and unintentional, 
authentic symbolism enough to enrich our meditation. If 
you wish to know what it is like when the anima appears 
in the modern society of America today, I can warmly rec- 
ommend to you Erskine’s Helen of T roy. She is not shallow, 
for the breath of eternity lies over all that is living. beyond all categories and can, therefore, 
dispense, with blame as welLas praise. The Queen of Heaven 
or the simple little girl who was tumbled into life — have 
we ever deeply considered how meagre was the lot that the 
legend of Mary translated to the divine stars? 

Life without sense and measure, that is not satisfied 
with its own fullness, is an object of fear and aversion to 
civil man — and one cannot disagree with him, for it is also 
the mother of all nonsense and of all tragedy. This is why, 
since the beginning of time, earth-born man, with his heal- 
ing animal instinct, is engaged in combat with his soul and 
its demonism. 

If the coming to terms with the shadow is the com- 
panion-piece to the individual’s development, then that with 
the anima is the masterpiece. For the relation with the anima 
is again a .test of courage and — more than that — a test by 


fire of all a man’s spiritual and moral forces. We must never 
forget, in the case of the anima, that it is a question of 
psychic facts which have never before been in man’s psy- 
chological possession; that hitherto were always to be found 
outside his consciousness in every possible form of projec- 
tion. For the child, the apima lurks in the supremacy of 
the mother, which sometimes leaves a sentimental attach- 
ment through the whole of life and seriously impairs the 
masculine development. To the primitive and to the man of 
the classic age, the anima appears as a goddess or demonic 
woman; while for mediaeval man, mother church has a place 
beside the Queen of Heaven and the witch. 

The desymbolized world of the Protestant has produced 
first an unhealthy sentimentality and then a sharpening of 
the moral conflict logically leading, because of its unbear- 
ableness, to Nietzsche’s "beyond good and evil.” In the cen- 
tres ot civilization, this condition shows itself also in the 
increasing insecurity of marriage. For instance, in Zurich, 
we have come to the American form of divorce court, the 
cases in which prove that the anima seeks to be projected 
upon the opposite sex, whereby magically complicated re- 
lations arise. 

Largely because of its pathological results, this situation 
has led to the recent growth of the psychology of com- 
plexes, which, in its Freudian form, professes the opinion 
that sexuality is the basis of all disturbances — a view that 
only accentuates the already existing conflict. Le peuple 
parte le sceau d*un hiver, qu'on n’explique pas > "The people 
bears the stamp of a winter which one cannot explain,” as 
the French translation of a Korean stele inscription says. 

In dealing with the shadow or the anima it is not suffi- 
cient to know about these concepts and to think them out. 
Nor can we ever experience the content of these concepts 
by a feeling or sense-impression of them. Therefore, it does 
not help in any way to learn a list of the archetypes by heart. 


Archetypes are complexes of experience that come upon us 
fatefully, and their effects begin in our most personal life. 
The anima no longer confronts us as a sublime goddess, but 
rather, under certain conditions, as our most personal and 
bitter misunderstanding. When, for instance, a highly hon- 
oured scholar in his seventies deserts his family and marries 
a twenty-year-old, red-haired actress, then we know that 
the gods have claimed another victim. It is thus that demonic 
supremacy shows itself to us. (In the Middle Ages it would 
still have been an easy matter to do away with the young 
woman as a witch.) 

The picture of the apima that I have drawn in the fore- 
going paragraphs is not complete. It is chaotic life-urge, to 
be sure, but something strangely meaningful also clings 
to it — something like secret knowledge or hidden wisdom, 
in most curious contrast to its itxatkmal, elfin nature. Here 
I should like to refer you again to the authors already cited. 
Rider Haggard calls She- "wisdom’s daughter.” Benoit’s 
queen of Atlantis has an excellent library that even con- 
tains a lost book of Plato. Trojan Helen, in her reincarna- 
tion, is liberated by the wise Simon Magus from a brothel 
in Tyre, and accompanies him on his journeys. 

I purposely refrained from mentioning at the start this 
thoroughly characteristic aspect of the anima, because our 
first meeting with it usually leads us to infer anything ex- 
cept wisdom. This aspect appears only to him who seri- 
ously comes to terms with the anima. It is only when this 
hard task has been faced that he comes more and more 
to recognize that, behind all the anima's cruel sporting with 
human fate, there lies something like a secret intention 
which seems to spring from a superior knowledge of the 
laws of life. Just the most unexpected, just the alarmingly 
chaotic, in such psychic experience, reveals the deepest 
meaning. And the more this meaning is recognized the more 
does the anima lose its impetuous, impulsiye, and compul- 


sive character. Dams against the flood of chaos slowly arise, 
for the meaningful divides itself from the meaningless. 
When sense and nonsense are no longer identical, the force 
of chaos is weakened by the subtraction of sense and non- 
sense; sense is endowed with the force of meaning, and non- 
sense with the force of meaninglessness. Thereby a new 
cosmos arises. 

In elfin nature wisdom and buffoonery appear as one 
and the same; and they are one and the same, as long as 
they are in the anima. Life is both nonsensical and signifi- 
cant. And when we do not laugh about one aspect, and 
speculate about the other, life is exceedingly banal, and 
everything is of the smallest proportions; there is then only 
a tiny sense and a tiny nonsense. In the very first place, 
nothing signifies anything; for when as yet there were no 
thinking beings, no one was there to interpret manifesta- 
tions. It is only for him who does not understand that things 
must be interpreted. Only the ununderstandable has sig- 

Man has awakened in a world that he does not un- 
derstand, and this is why he tries to interpret it. 

Actually, the anima — and so life itself — is without sig- 
nificance, yet it has a significant nature, for there is a£osmos~ 
i n all cha os, secret order in all disorder, unfailing law in all 
contingency. It takes man’s discriminating understanding, 
which dissolves everything into antinomies of judgement, 
to recognize this. If a man comes to terms with the anima, 
its chaos and caprice give him occasion to suspect a secret 
order, to sense a plan, meaning, and purpose extending 
beyond its existence — we might almost be tempted into say- 
ing "to postulate" this, yet that would not correspond to 
the truth. For we do not actually have at our disposal any 
power of cool reflection, nor does any science or philosophy 
help us, and still less the traditional teachings of religion. 


We are entangled and confused in aimless experience, and 
the power of judgement with all its categories has im- 
potently gone to the devil. Human interpretation fails, for 
a turbulent life-situation has arisen that cannot be fitted 
into any traditional explanations. It is a moment of collapse. 
We sink into a final depth, to a spiritual death — as Apuleius 
rightly says: ad instar voluntaries mortis. It is a surrender of 
our own powers, not arbitrarily willed, but naturally forced 
upon us; it is no freely chosen subjection and humiliation 
bedecked in moralisms, but a complete and unmistakable 
defeat crowned with the panic fear of demoralization. 

Only when all supports and crutches are broken, and no 
covering from the rear gives any further promise of con- 
cealing us in the least, does it become possible to experience 
an archetype that up till then had lain concealed in the 
anima’s significant senselessness. It is the archetype of mean- 
ing , as the anima is the archetype of life itself. 

We always suppose, of course, that meaning is the 
younger of the two occurrences, because we assume, with 
some justification, that we bestow it of ourselves, and be- 
cause we also rightly believe that the great world can exist 
without being explained. But how do we give meaning? 
From what source, in the last analysis, do we derive mean- 
ing? The forms of our interpretation are historical cate- 
gories that reach back into the mists of time — a fact we do 
not sufficiently take into account. Interpretations make use 
of certain linguistic matrices that are themselves derived 
from primordial images. From whatever side we approach 
the question, everywhere we are confronted by the history 
of language and motivation, and this leads straight back into 
the enchanted, primitive world. 

Let us take, for example, the word "idea.” It goes back 
to the ei5os -concept of Plato, and ideas are primordial 
images preserved iv obpavUp rbiry, being therefore tran- 
scendental, eternal forms perceived by the winged eye of 


the seer, the imagines ft lares of the primitive ghost-seer, 
images of dream and the revealing vision. Or let us take 
the concept of energy, which explains physical happening. 
At an earlier time it was the "phlogiston,” the heat-force 
inherent in matter, like the "primordial warmth” of the 
Stoics, or the Heraclitean irvp iec^uor, which already 
borders on the primitive notion of an all-prevalent living 
force, a power of growth and magic healing generally called 

I will not go on needlessly giving examples. It is suffi- 
cient to know that there is not a single important idea or 
view that does not possess historical antecedents. They are 
all founded upon archetypal, primordial forms, whose sensu- 
ous nature dates from a time when consciousness did not 
yet think, but merely perceived. Thought was an object of 
inner perception, not intellection only, but sensed as a mani- 
festation — seen or heard, so to speak. Thought was essen- 
tially revelation, not something invented, but something 
forced upon us or bringing conviction through its immedi- 
ate actuality. Thoughts antedate the primitive ego-con- 
sciousness, and the latter is the object of thought, rather 
than its subject, according to the Pauline phrase, sicut et 
cognitus sum, or to the Cartesian cogito ergo sum. 

But we ourselves have not climbed the last peak of 
consciousness, and so we also have a pre-existent thinking, 
of which, to be sure, we are not aware as long as we are 
supported by traditional symbols — or, expressing ourselves in 
the language of dreams, as long as the father or the king has 
not yet died; or again, to speak with Nietzsche, as long as 
God is not yet dead. 

I should like to show by an example how the uncon- 
scious opens the way to meaning by revelation. It is the case 
of a young theological student whom I do not know per- 
sonally. He was in great straits because of his religious con- 


victions, and during this time dreamed the following dream, 
which appears again later in this book: 

He stood before a handsome old man dressed entirely 
in black. He knew it was the white magician. This person 
had just addressed him at considerable length, and the 
dreamer could no longer remember what it was about. He 
had only retained the closing words: "And for this we need 
the help of the black magician.” At this moment the door 
opened, and through it stepped an old man resembling the 
first, except that he was dressed in white. He addressed the 
white magician, "I need your advice,” but cast a question- 
ing side glance upon the dreamer, whereupon the black- 
robed yet white magician said, “You can speak freely, he is 
an innocent one.” 

Then the black magician began to tell his history. He 
came from a distant land where something extraordinary 
had happened. For the land was ruled by an old king who 
felt his death near. He — the king — had sought out a tomb 
for himself. There were in that land a great number of 
sepulchres from ancient times, and the king had chosen the 
finest for himself. According to the legend a virgin had 
been buried in it. The king caused the tomb to be opened 
to prepare it for his purpose. Now, as the bones that were 
in it were exposed to the air, they suddenly took on life 
and changed into a black horse, which at once fled into the 
desert and there vanished. He — the black magician — had 
heard of this story, and at once set forth to pursue the horse. 
In a journey of many days, always upon the tracks of the 
horse, he had come to the desert and crossed it to the other 
side where the grasslands began again. There he had met 
with the horse grazing, and there also he had come upon 
the find that made him require the advice of the white ma- 
gician: for he had found the keys of paradise, and now 
was at a loss to know what was to be done with them. . . . 


Atr this exciting moment the dreamer unfortunately 
awoke. ... 

In the light of the earlier remarks in this chapter, you 
will have little trouble in guessing the meaning of this 
dream: The old king is the ruling symbol that is about to 
go to its eternal rest, and in the very place where ancient 
powers of life already lie buried. His choice falls, rightly 
enough, upon the grave of the anima, who lies in the death 
trance of a Sleeping Beauty as long as the king is alive — 
that is, as long as a valid principle (Prince or principe ) 
regulates and expresses life. But when the king draws to his 
end, she comes to life again and changes into the black horse, 
which even in the Platonic parable expresses the unruliness 
of the emotions. Who follows him, comes to the desert, to a 
wild land remote from men — an image of spiritual and moral 
isolation. But there lie the keys of paradise. 

Now, what is paradise? Clearly, the Garden of Eden 
with its twofold tree of life and of knowledge, and its four 
rivers. In the Christian version it is also the heavenly city 
of the Apocalypse, which, like the Garden of Eden, is con- 
ceived as a mandala. But the mandala is a symbol of indi- 
viduation. It is the black magician who finds the keys to 
the solution of the difficulties of belief weighing upon the 
dreamer — the keys that open the way of individuation. So 
the opposition of desert-paradise means also the other oppo- 
sition of isolation-individuation, or self -becoming. 

This part of the dream is also a noteworthy paraphrase 
of the A6y wv 'Ij/ctou, edited by Hunt and Grenfell, in which 
the way to the Kingdom of Heaven is pointed out by the 
animals, and where we find the admonition: “The Kingdom 
of Heaven is within you, and whoever shall know himself 
shall find it.” Furthermore, it is also a free rendering of 
the serpent of paradise who persuaded the first parents to 
sin and who finally leads to the redemption of mankind 
through the Son of God. As we know, this causal nexus gave 


rise to the Ophitic identification of the serpent with the 
Soter. The black horse and the black magician — and this is 
a modern achievement of the mind — are evil elements whose 
relativity in respect to the good is hinted at in the exchange 
of garments. 

The two magicians are, indeed, two aspects of the arche- 
typal old man who, beyond good and evil, is the superior 
master and teacher, a pointer of the ways, the pre-existent 
meaning concealed in chaotic life, the father of the soul, 
which, nevertheless, in a miraculous way, is also his virgin- 

What an unbearably hard lesson for a young student 
of theology! Fortunately he was not in the least aware that 
the father of all prophets spoke to him in dream and brought 
within his grasp the secret of all mysteries. We may wonder 
at the inexpediency of such occurrences. Why this prodi- 
gality? But I must add that we do not know how this dream 
affected the student, and I must then emphasize the fact 
that, to me at least, this dream had an infinite amount to 
say. It was not allowed to be lost, and just for the reason 
that the ways of life are very wonderful. 

The master in this dream teaches a new reconciliation, 
namely, that of good and evil, as an answer to the sharpen- 
ing of the moral conflict in Protestantism. Herewith we 
approach the ideas of the East, the nirvandva of the Upan- 
ishads, the escape from the opposites, and these ideas are in 
a manner brought within our reach. We can see how dan- 
gerously meaningful is the relativity of good and evil con- 
tained in the opposition, by this aphoristic question from 
Indian wisdom: “Who takes longer to reach perfection, he 
who loves God or he who hates God?” And the answer goes: 
“He who loves God takes seven reincarnations to reach per- 
fection, and he who hates God takes only three, for he 
who hates God will think of him more than he who loves 


The escape from the opposites presumes their equiva- 
lence, and this contradicts our Christian truth. None the 
less, the relativity and co-operation of the moral opposites 
contrived by the unconscious, and illustrated in our dream, 
is a natural truth that has just as naturally been recog- 
nized by the East. Moreover, there are some passages in the 
New Testament that come suspiciously close to this stand- 
point; I need only remind you of the parable of the un- 
faithful steward, not to mention certain uncanonical words 
of the Master. 

Our dream is not by any chance unique in this respect; 
rather, the tendency to make the opposites relative to each 
other is an outspoken peculiarity of the unconscious. But it 
must be added at once that this is true only in the case of 
a sharpened moral sensitivity; in other cases the unconscious 
can point just as inexorably to the incurable disunion of the 
opposites. In this regard the unconscious has no absolute 
standpoint, but one that is relative to the conscious attitude. 
So we may, no doubt, assert that only a Protestant theo- 
logian needed such a dream. This amounts to an essential re- 
striction of the dream’s statement. But even with this 
limitation of its validity, the dream is significant enough to 
display the superiority of the unconscious standpoint. And so 
we find this standpoint personified and presented as the 
opinion and voice of a wise magician, who in age, experience, 
knowledge, and ability is by far superior to the dreamer’s 

The magician is the archetype of the old wise man, and 
the latter is a direct descendant of the medicine man with 
his function in primitive society. Like the anima, he is an 
immortal demon, and he penetrates the chaotic darkness of 
mere life with the light of meaning. He is the enlightener, 
the teacher and master, a foxoirofiirbs, whose personification 
even Nietzsche, that breaker of tablets, could not forgo; for 


he called up his reincarnated form in Zarathustra, the lofty 
spirit of an almost Homeric age, as the carrier and an- 
nouncer of his own Dionysian inspiration and rapture. God 
was dead for him, indeed, but the demon of wisdom had 
become his bodily double, so to speak. He himself says: 

Then one was changed to two 

And Zarathustra passed me by. 

Zarathustra is more for Nietzsche than a poetic figure; 
he is an involuntary confession. Nietzsche also had lost him- 
self in the darkness of a life that turned its back upon God 
and (Christianity, and that is why the revealer and enlight- 
ener came to him as the speaking fountainhead of his soul. 
Here is the source of the hieratic language of Z arathustra, 
for that is the style of this archetype. It has the effect of 
solemnity and sublimity. Its manner is the species ceternitatis. 

Even modern man, in experiencing this archetype, 
comes to know the prirpordial form of thinking as an au- 
tonomous activity whose object he is. It is a so-called occult 
or religious experience, thanks to which the Logos, for in- 
stance, attained divinity. Hermes Trismegistus, or the Thoth 
of Hermetic literature, the mystic Orpheus, Poimandres and 
his relation, the Poimenof T he Shepherd of Hernias, are other 
formulations of the same experience. If the name "Lucifer” 
were not prejudicial, it would without doubt be suitable for 
this archetype. But I have been content to call it the arche- 
type of the old wise man or of meaning. 

The three archetypes so far mentioned — the shadow, 
the _anima, and the old wise man — are of the kind imme- 
diately experienced in personified form. In the preceding 
pages, I have tried to present the general psychological con- 
ditions from which this experience arises. But what I con- 
veyed were only abstract rationalizations. Actually, we could 
— or better, we should — give a description of the process as 


it appears in immediate experience. For, in the course of the 
process, these archetypes come upon the scene as active per- 

The process itself involves another class of archetypes, 
which we may roughly call the archetypes of transforma- 
tion. These are not personalities, but rather typical situa- 
tions, places, ways, animals, plants, and so forth that sym- 
bolize the kind of change, whatever it is. Like the personali- 
ties, these archetypes are genuine and true symbols that 
cannot be taken as arifieia or as allegories, and exhaustively 
interpreted. They are, rather, genuine symbols just in so 
far as they are ambiguous, full of intimations, and, in the 
last analysis, inexhaustible. The basic principles, the &px«d of 
the unconscious, are indescribably vague because of their 
wealth of reference, their "pleromatic” character — and this 
despite their being unmistakably specific. Our intellectual 
judgement, of course, keeps trying to establish their single- 
ness of meaning, and so misses the essential point; for what 
we should above all establish, as alone corresponding to their 
nature, is their manifold meaning, their almost unbounded 
fullness of reference. 

If one wishes to form a picture of the symbolic process, 
the series of alchemistic images discussed in Chapter V are 
good examples; yet we must note that these symbols, though 
of obscure origin, are for the most part traditional. An 
excellent Eastern example is the Tantric system of the 
chakras, or the mystical nerve system of Chinese yoga. It 
also seems as if the image series of the tarot cards were de- 
scendants of the archetypes of transformation; a very en- 
lightening lecture of Professor Bernoulli’s has confirmed this 

The symbolic process is an experience in the image and 
of the image. The continuation of the process usually shows 
an enantiodromal arrangement like that in the text of the 
I-ging, and so presents a rhythm of destruction and con- 


struction, of error and truth, of loss and gain, of depth and 
height. As a rule, the stations of the way also have the char- 
acteristics of the &0\ov , of the heavy labour. For instance, the 
&d\a of Heracles could very well correspond to a symbolic 
process. The beginning of the process is almost always in- 
dicated by a blind alley or other unbearable situation. Put- 
ting it generally, the goal is illumination, whereby the initial 
situation is surmounted and a higher level is reached. 

As regards the element of time, the process may be com- 
pressed into a single dream or into a short moment of ex- 
perience, or be extended over months or years, according 
to the initial situation, the person involved in the process, 
and the goal to be reached. Of course, the wealth in sym- 
bols also fluctuates strongly. Almost all the symbols are ca- 
pable of a positive as well as a negative meaning, and we 
meet as often with the one as the other, for the way through 
transformation is ambushed by all possible dangers. Though 
everything is experienced in image form, symbolically, it is 
by no means a question of playhouse dangers, but of very 
real risks upon which the fate of a whole life may depend. 
The chief danger is that of succumbing to the uncannily 
fascinating influence of living archetypes. If we do, we may 
come to a standstill either in a symbolic situation or in an 
identification with an archetypal personality. 

The symbolic process is possible only when one allows 
the ego-consciousness to enter the image, whatever it is; 
that is, when no obstruction is offered to the happening in 
the unconscious. But this is tantamount to a temporary re- 
nunciation of the state of being the subject. One might; 
therefore, call the necessary condition for the process a psy- 
chosis brought about by free choice. For a psychosis is a 
largely involuntary yielding before an irruption from the 
unconscious that has attained a higher potential than con- 
sciousness, and so overflows the inhibiting barrier — called 
the threshold of consciousness — that is otherwise always 


maintained intact. This analogy is again no empty metaphor, 
but represents a constant danger in the process — threaten- 
ing, indeed, yet fortunately remaining for the most part at 
some distance. 

Now, by becoming to such an extent an object of un- 
conscious happening, consciousness is drawn into the realm 
of images and is brought, or sometimes even compelled, to 
live them by performing them. In this way conscious and 
unconscious are interfused, and a decided change of con- 
sciousness is brought about. That is why I call this a process 
of transformation. At the same time, the abyss opened up 
by the aberration of consciousness is filled in, so that the nat- 
ural order is re-established. 

But because consciousness, at least temporarily, becomes 
the object of the unconscious, there arises the possibility 
that it will also be drawn completely into the archetype; 
and this may occur quite at the beginning, when, as a rule, 
the meeting with the shadow takes place. If the shadow suc- 
ceeds in assimilating the ego, a reversal of the whole per- 
sonality comes about. Outwardly, this becomes perceptible 
through a change for the worse in character. When this is 
the case, there also unfailingly arises a kind of possession 
through the anima, and spirit — the archetype of meaning 
— becomes a destructive wrongdoer. 

The fact is that the single archetypes are not isolated 
from each other in the unconscious, but are in a state of con- 
tamination, of the most complete, mutual interpenetration 
and interfusion. Under so-called normal conditions, the 
shadow is largely identical with the anima, and so on. When, 
therefore, the ego is assimilated to the shadow, a certain 
state of possession through the unconscious automatically 
occurs. As the shadow, according to its definition, is the his- 
torically older human being, the ego becomes more infantile 
and primitive as a result of the assimilation; the man be- 
comes boyish, the woman becomes a flapper, and both give 



themselves airs that belong to the past. The puerile man 
bedecks himself with the wreaths of bygone days; he identi- 
fies himself, like the Negroes of Central Australia in their 
religious ceremonies, with the heroes of eld, thus compen- 
sating his powerlessness in the present. He lives in the past 
and its ideals. In this way he does something' right in the 
wrong place, as is always the case in important errors. For 
the shadow is a formidable thing. The harder and more 
disappointing are the conditions of life, and the more de- 
spondent consciousness becomes, so much the more grows 
the shadow, till the darkness at last is overpowering. 

When, in France at the beginning of the eleventh cen- 
tury, famines and plagues swept across the land, the dis- 
illusioned people, feeling themselves God-forsaken, invented 
the cult of Satan and the Black Mass with its heathenish 
practices. In this the attempt to escape to the metaphysical 
and spiritual was right, but the regression to the past and 
to the dark, opposite principle was wrong. The palaeolithic 
Australians do things in a better style: as a result of hard 
conditions of life they are often in need, and so might easily 
be turned to the negative side. In order to counteract this 
danger, they identify themselves, within the bounds of rit- 
ual, with their ancestors of the so-called alcheringa period, 
these being direct descendants of the totem animal, as the 
Homeric heroes were of the gods. In this way they grant 
life to the shadow, and yet prevent it from taking the upper 
hand in their daily life. And they do well, for the animals 
they hunt would not be in the least impressed if they came 
strutting in the guise of Homeric heroes. Thus they know 
how to protect themselves in the right way from the megalo- 
mania that comes from distress. 

Many primitives have a fine feeling for this, so that 
they sometimes forbid the women, under pain of death, to 
look on at the men’s ceremonies, as if they suspected they 
would laugh at the puerile goings-on. When the danger of 


the shadow must be exorcised, rather let the darkness of 
mystery cover the ceremony that brings salvation, that its 
secrets may not seem a childish farce in the daylight of 
reality. Taking it in its deepest sense, the shadow is the in- 
visible saurian tail that man still drags behind him. Care- 
fully amputated, it becomes the serpent of healing of the 
mystery. Only monkeys parade with it. 

When one has succeeded in some such way in preserv- 
ing one’s humanity, in spite of the danger of the shadow, 
then the discovery of the soul becomes possible, and with it 
the new danger of identification with the soul. I will not 
now take up this possibility in detail. Let the example of 
the shadow suffice, for I have used it to show what happens, 
in small things as in great, when (an arjchetype assimilates 

The symbols of transformation portray the process, as 
well as its dangers, in typical images. The traditional images 
of the way of initiation are extraordinarily multifarious, at 
least to a superficial view; on the other hand, the individual 
course of initiation shows images that are comparable in 
spite of individual variations. To the beginning of the proc- 
ess belong chiefly animal symbols, such as the serpent, bird, 
horse, wolf, bull, lion, and so forth. The serpent is a chapter 
in itself, for it has outspoken kinship in myth with the 
dragon, the black .amphibian or reptile (in the diminutive, 
also the houseless wood snail and worm) , the crocodile, the 
crab (in the diminutive, insects of every kind). The frog, 
on the other hand, stands upon a higher level and counts, 
because of its anatomy, as an anticipation of man on the 
level of cold-blooded animality. Here belong likewise the 
cellar and cave, watery depths and the sea, as also fire, 
weapons, and instruments. The birds and mammals are vari- 
ous forms of the sanguine instincts, whereas the serpent, the 
saurians, and monsters personify primordial, cold-blooded 

94 the integration of the personality 

anirpal nature, and, as adversaries of warm-blooded, emo- 
tional nature with its panic excitement, are anticipations of 
everything divinely pre-eminent. Cave and sea refer to the 
unconscious state with its darkness and secrecy. Insects, as 
a rule, are allusions to the states of the sympathetic nerve 
system, which is always excited by contents that cannot be 
consciously realized. Fire is emotional excitement or sudden 
bursts of impulse, and if a pot is set upon the fire, then 
one knows that transformation is under way. So the kitchen, 
also, is a place of creative change. Quite at the beginning, 
sometimes, stands the cosmic catastrophe. Weapons and in- 
struments represent the will. 

To the intermediate symbols belong the frog, the 
hermaphrodite, the crossing, the dangerous passage, the 
transitus, this last being the bearing of an animal, corpse, 
tree, or cross; also hanging, soaring, or swimming. Here, too, 
the tree has its place, or transformation into a tree, and 
represents rootedness, repose, growth, and a spreading forth 
in the upper regions of air and light, as also the union of 
sky and earth. 

The hero and the puer ceternus may appear as themes 
throughout the whole process. 

To the end of the process belong all the symbols of 
the self in its various aspects. While the Christian cross is 
a symbol of the beginning, the cross with equal aruis appears 
later (as it did in early Christianity) , then geometric sym- 
bols, the circle, the square, the fourfold opposed to the 
threefold in all possible forms, the flower, especially the 
rose, the wheel, star, egg, sun, likewise the child (as higher 
form of the puer ceternus). Negative forms appear as the 
spider, the net, and the prison. 

I am only too well aware of the inadequacy of this rapid 
survey of the symbols of the inner drama. Each of the above- 
mentioned symbols should really be presented in a thor- 
oughly documented way. The reader must be content with 


tHe somewhat more thorough account of the shadow, the 
anima, and the wise old man. -As for the process of trans- 
formation, the development of the three archetypes just 
mentioned may give an approximate conception of it — a 
conception, if the truth be told, that in no way approaches 
the richness of actuality. 

Nor could I present the opening scene in the form that 
is characteristic of a woman’s psyche. This differs from 
man’s. But traditional symbolism is chiefly a product of the 
masculine psyche and is, therefore, not a suitable object of 
imitation for woman. Exempla sunt otiosa! 

Altogether, I regard it as a dubious venture to bring too 
many of these dark things into the light; yet sometimes a 
wanderer in the black night is thankful for the fitful, yel- 
low glare of a lonely lantern, or for the pale streak of 
earliest dawn. 


i. "Mandala,” a Sanscrit word, means circle or magic circle. Its symbolism embraces 
all concentrically arranged figures, all circular or square circumferences having a centre, 
and all radial or spherical arrangements. 


Dream Symbols 

of the Process of Individuation 

Facilis descensus Averni; 

Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis. 

Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras, 
Hoc opus, hie labor est. 

(JEneid, lib. VI.) 

The Material 

We are now ready to consider the experience of an 
actual person with the process we have termed individuation. 
This experience was exemplified in certain symbolic dreams 
and visual impressions. Symbols of the process of individua- 
tion are images, usually of archetypal nature, that appear in 
dreams and portray the centralizing process, or the produc- 
tion of a new centre of the personality. The general nature 
of this process is discussed in my essay: The Relation of the 
Ego to the Unconscious . 1 For certain reasons indicated there, 
I call this centre also the "self,” a term that is meant to in- 
clude the totality of the psyche in so far as this manifests 
itself in an individual. The self is not only the centre, but 
also the circumference that encloses consciousness and the 
unconscious; it is the centre of this totality, as the ego is the 
centre of consciousness. 

The symbols that are dealt with in this chapter do not 
cover all the manifold steps and transformations of the 

process of individuation, but are of the order of images 



"exclusively and directly related to the making conscious of 
the new centre. These images belong to a definite category 
that I call mandala symbolism. In The Secret of the Golden 
Flower 2 I have, in collaboration with Wilhelm, described 
this symbolism in some detail. In the study under considera- 
tion I should like to present an individual series of such 
symbols in chronological order. The material for this chapter 
consists of more than one thousand dreams and visual im- 
pressions of a scientifically educated, youngish man. But the 
dreamer’s education in history, philology, archaeology, and 
ethnology is not the question here. The bearing of his dreams 
upon the subject matter of these fields was almost wholly 
unknown to him. 

For the purpose of my present study I have treated this 
patient’s first four hundred dreams after his case came to 
treatment. They are distributed over a period of nearly 
ten months. In order to exclude every influencing factor, 
one of my women pupils, a doctor who was then a beginner, 
undertook the observation of the process under my direc- 
tion, and pursued it for five months. Then, for three months, 
the dreamer continued his observations alone. Except for a 
short conference at the outset, before the beginning of the 
observation, I did not see the dreamer at all during the first 
eight months. So it happened that three hundred and fifty- 
five of the four hundred dreams occurred without any per- 
sonal contact with me. Only the last forty-five dreams took 
place under my observation. No interpretations worth men- 
tioning were undertaken, as the dreamer, thanks to his ex- 
cellent scientific training and talent, needed no help of any 
kind. The conditions were, therefore, positively ideal for 
unprejudiced observation and recording. 

First of all, then, I shall present extracts of the initial 
dreams, twenty-two in all, in order to show how the man- 
dala symbolism, of which we have already spoken, and which 
here appears at an early stage of the process, is embedded 


in the remaining dream material. Later on I shall select the 
dreams, in chronological order, that deal particularly with 
the mandala. 

With few exceptions, the dreams as presented here are 
abbreviated, sometimes by extracting the part that carried 
the main thought, sometimes by reducing the whole text 
to essentials. This simplifying operation has not only short- 
ened lengthy excursions, but also removed personal allusions 
and complications. Such an excision had to be made for rea- 
sons of discretion. In spite of this somewhat questionable 
meddling, I have avoided every arbitrary perversion of 
meaning according to the best dictates of my knowledge 
and conscience. I had to exercise the same consideration in 
interpreting the dreams, for which reason certain passages 
in them will appear to have been overlooked. Had I not made 
this sacrifice of absolute completeness, I should not have 
been in a position to publish this series, which in my opin- 
ion is hardly to be surpassed in intelligence, clarity, and 
consistency. Therefore, I take an especial pleasure in ex- 
pressing to the "author,” at this point, my sincere grati- 
tude for the service he has rendered science. 

The Method 

A great deal of popular misunderstanding about the 
interpretation of dreams seems to be current. It is important 
to understand what a serious approach to this problem en- 
tails. In my writings and lectures I have always insisted 
that we must renounce preconceived opinions in the analysis 
and interpretation of objective-psychic (sorcalled "uncon- 
scious”) contents . 3 We are not yet in possession of a general 
theory of dreams that would allow us, unchastised, to adopt 
a deductive procedure, any more than we enjoy a general 
theory of consciousness that would permit deductive con- 
clusions. The manifestations of the subjective psyche, that 


is to say, of consciousness, are calculable only to the smallest 
extent, and there is no theoretic demonstration whatsoever 
that could convincingly establish the necessity of an appar- 
ent causal connection. Quite on the contrary, we have to 
reckon with an arbitrariness and "fortuitousness” of about 
one hundred per cent in the complex reactions and actions 
of consciousness. Likewise, there is no empirical, and still less 
any theoretic, ground for the assumption that the same is 
not true of the expressions of the unconscious. The latter 
are as manifold, as unpredictable, and as arbitrary as the 
former, and must, accordingly, be subjected to as many 
ways of approach. 

In the case of conscious utterances we are in the advan- 
tageous position of being addressed and of having presented 
to us a content intended to be recognizable; in the case of 
"unconscious” manifestations, on the other hand, there ex- 
ists no language that we would consider directed and 
adapted, but only a psychic phenomenon having apparently 
but the loosest connection with conscious contents. If the 
conscious utterance should be ununderstandable, we can al- 
ways ask for the meaning. But the objective-psychic utter- 
ance is strange even to the consciousness in which it ex- 
presses itself. In dealing with it we are, therefore, constrained 
to apply the method demanded by the reading of a frag- 
mentary text or one containing unknown words: we ex- 
amine the context. The comparison of a series of textual 
passages in which the unknown word occurs shows us what 
the latter could mean. The psychological context of dream 
contents consists of that web of associations in which the 
expression of the dream is embedded in a natural manner. In 
theory we can never know this expression beforehand; ac- 
tually it is sometimes possible, granting a large experience 
and much practice; yet a careful analysis will never rely too 
much on rules of the craft, for the danger of deception 


and suggestion is too great. Especially in the analysis of 
isolated dreams, it is worthless to foreknow and presuppose 
on the ground of practical expectations and general proba- 
bility. Therefore, it is unconditionally the rule that we first 
assume that every dream and every part of each dream is 

Only after a careful survey of the context do we make 
an attempt at interpretation. This is done by inserting in 
the text of the dream the meaning found by establishing 
the context; and we can then see whether this makes a flex- 
ible explanation possible or, rather, whether it gives rise 
to a satisfying meaning. But under no circumstance may we 
anticipate that this meaning will correspond to any subjec- 
tive expectation, for often the dream says something aston- 
ishingly different from what we should have expected. If 
the discovered meaning of the dream answers to expectation, 
this is actually a reason to be wary, for the standpoint of 
the unconscious is as a rule complementary or compensatory 
to consciousness and hence unexpectedly "different.” 

I do not in any way deny the possibility of "parallel” 
dreams, that is, of those whose meaning falls in with the 
attitude of consciousness, or reinforces it. But, in my ex- 
perience at least, these are fairly rare. 

Now, the method which I follow in this study seems 
to go directly counter to this basic attitude toward the 
dream. It seems as if the dreams have been interpreted with- 
out the least regard for the context. As a matter of fact, I 
have nowhere in this chapter established their context, for 
the series of dreams did not take place under my observa- 
tion at all. I treat the dreams to a certain extent as if I had 
had them myself and were for that reason able on my own 
part to supply the context. 

Applied to the isolated dreams of someone practically 
a stranger to me personally, this procedure would be a gross 


technical blunder. But here we are dealing not with isolated 
dreams, but with several interconnected series in the course 
of which the meaning gradually develops to a certain extent 
of itself. For the series is the context, and the dreamer him- 
self supplies it. It is as if there lay before us not a single text, 
but a large number which throw light from all sides upon 
the unfamiliar terms, so that the reading of all the texts is 
sufficient in itself to clear up the difficulties of meaning of 
each single one. Moreover, in the second, larger part of this 
study we are dealing with a definite archetype that has long 
been known to us from other sources, and this substantially 
facilitates the interpretation. Certainly, the interpretation of 
each single passage is essentially conjecture ; but the course 
of the entire series gives us all the necessary supports by 
which immediately to correct possible errors in preceding 

It goes without saying that when the dreamer was un- 
der the observation of my pupil he was allowed to know 
nothing of these interpretations, and was therefore in no 
way prejudiced by my opinions. Moreover, I hold the view, 
based on considerable experience, that the possibility and 
danger of prejudice are exaggerated. The objective psyche, 
as experience shows us, is independent in the highest degree. 
If it were not, it could not exercise the function which is 
peculiar to it, the compensation of consciousness. Conscious- 
ness may allow itself to be trained like a parrot, but not the 
unconscious. That is why St. Augustine thanked God for not 
making him responsible for his dreams. The unconscious is 
a psychic element that can only in appearance, and much to 
the disadvantage of consciousness, be put in training. It is 
and remains out of reach of all subjective caprice, a realm of 
nature that cannot be improved upon or perverted. It is 
part of nature’s secret, which we can listen to but cannot 



Dreams: First Series 

i. (Dream) He dreams he is in company and, on tak- 
ing his leave, puts on a strange hat instead of his own. 

What is the significance of this dream? To begin with, 
the hat, as the covering of the head, has in general the mean- 
ing of something comprising the head. As in the act of sub- 
suming we "bring all ideas under one hat,” so the hat, like a 
universal concept, covers the whole personality and shares 
its meaning. Coronation lends to the ruler the divine nature 
of the sun, the mortarboard bestows the dignity of a scholar, 
a strange hat imparts a strange nature. Meyrink employs 
this theme in The Golem, where the hero puts on the hat 
of Athanasius Pernath and, as a result, is translated into a 
strange experience. It is clear enough in The Golem that it 
is the unconscious that entangles the hero in fantastic experi- 
ences. (Let me call attention right here in a hypothetical 
way to the significance of the Golem parallel: it is the hat 
of an Athanasius, of an immortal, of a timeless being, by 
which we are to understand a universally authentic, perpetu- 
ally existent human being in contradistinction to the in- 
dividual who happens but once and is, so to speak, acci- 
dental.) The hat, which embraces the head, is round like 
the sun-disk of the crown and therefore contains the first 
allusion to the mandala. The ninth mandala dream, dis- 
cussed on page 132, will confirm the attribute of im- 
perishable duration, and the thirty-fifth, given later on page 
179, the mandala nature of the hat. As a general result of the 
exchange of hats, then, we may perhaps expect in this case 
a development similar to that in The Golem, namely, an 
emergence of the unconscious. The unconscious with its 
figures already stands like a shadow behind him and presses 
into consciousness. 


2. (Dream) He rides in the railway and, by standing 
squarely before the window, deprives his fellow passengers 
of the view. He must stand aside for them. 

With this dream it is beginning to be plain that the 
process is set in motion. The dreamer discovers that he ob- 
structs the light for those who stand behind him, namely, 
the unconscious components of his personality. We have no 
eyes behind us; as a consequence, ''behind” is the region of 
the unseen, of the unconscious. If the dreamer opens the 
way to the window, that is, to consciousness, then, the un- 
conscious content becomes conscious. 

3. (Hypnogogic, visual impression) The subject "day- 
dreams” that he is on the seacoast. The sea breaks into the 
land, overflowing everything. Then he is seated on a lonely 

The sea, as earlier chapters have suggested, is the symbol 
of the collective unconscious because it hides unsuspected 
depths under a reflecting surface. Those who stand behind 
him, the shadowy and demonic avvoradot, the “com- 
panions who travel along,” have broken like a flood into 
the terra firma of consciousness. Such irruptions are un- 
canny because they are irrational and inexplicable to the 
individual concerned. They signify a momentous alteration 
of the personality in that they immediately constitute a 
painful, personal secret that estranges the human being from 
his environment and isolates him from it. It is something 
that "you can tell to no one,” except under fear of being 
accused of mental abnormality, and with some justification, 
for something quite similar befalls the insane. It is still a long 
way from an intuitively sensed irruption to pathological 
overthrow; but a layman does not know this. 

The result of psychic isolation through a secret is, as a 

104 THE INTEGRATION of the personality 

rule, the vivifying of the psychic atmosphere as a surro- 
gate for the lost contact with the individual’s fellow beings. 
It is the occasion for an activation of the unconscious, and 
out of it there arises something similar to the illusions and 
hallucinations of lonely desert travellers, seafarers, and 
saints. The mechanism of this manifestation can, no doubt, 
be explained in terms of energy. The normal relations to 
the objects of the environment are maintained by a certain 
expenditure of energy. If the relation to the object is cut 
off, there arises a “retention” of energy, which, for its part, 
gives rise to an equivalent surrogate. For example, just as 
the idea of persecution issues from a relationship infected 
with mistrust, so, as a substitute for the normal animation 
of the world around us, there arises an illusory reality in 
which uncanny, ghostly shadows move in place of people. 
Thus it comes about that lonely, desert places are always in- 
habited for primitive man by "devils” and similar spectres. 

4. (Dream) He is surrounded by many indistinct, 
feminine figures. A voic^ within him says: "I must first get 
away from the father.” 

Here has occurred an animation of the psychic at- 
mosphere by what, in the style of the Middle Ages, would 
have been called succubi. We are reminded of the visions of 
the Egyptian Anthony, which Flaubert has so learnedly por- 
trayed. The hallucinatory element becomes noticeable in the 
fact that the thoughts grow audible. The “first get away” 
seems to demand a concluding sentence, which should be- 
gin with "in order then.” Presumably it runs something 
like: “in order then to be able to follow the unconscious, 
that is, the allurements of the women.” The father, the 
embodiment of the traditional spirit as it shows itself in re- 
ligion and in the general outlook of most individuals, stands 
in his way. He holds the dreamer a prisoner to consciousness 

dream symbols of the process of INDIVIDUATION 1 05 

and its values. The traditional masculine world with its in- 
tellectualism and rationalism becomes noticeably an obstacle. 

From this we must conclude that the unconscious, 
which approaches him, stands decidedly in opposition to 
the tendencies of consciousness, and that, in spite of this 
opposition, the dreamer- has already a considerable inclina- 
tion to the side of the unconscious. In consequence, the 
latter should not be subordinated to the rational judgement 
of consciousness, but should rather be an experience of its 
own unique kind. Naturally, this course is not easily ac- 
cepted by the intellect, for it demands, if not a complete, 
then at least a partial sacrifice of the conscious intellect. 
What is more, the problem thus raised is hard for modern 
man to grasp, because he can see in the unconscious, at first 
approach, only an unessential and unreal appendage of con- 
sciousness, and not a peculiar sphere of experience of an au- 
tonomous kind. 

In the course of the young man’s later dreams this con- 
flict will often recur, until at last the right formula for the 
correlation of conscious-unconscious is found, and the cor- 
rect, intermediate position assigned to the personality. More- 
over, such a conflict cannot be solved by understanding it, 
but only by living it. Every stage of the process must be 
lived through. There is no interpretation or other sleight of 
hand capable of getting the individual around this difficulty 
by deception. The coalescence of conscious and unconscious 
can succeed only a step at a time. 

The resistance of consciousness to the unconscious, as 
well as the underestimation of the latter, is a historic 
necessity of human psychic development, for otherwise con- 
sciousness could never have differentiated itself from the 
unconscious at all. The consciousness of modern man, how- 
ever, has withdrawn somewhat too far from the reality of 
the unconscious. We have even forgotten that the psyche 
does not correspond to our conscious intention, but is for the 


most part autonomous and unconscious. For this reason, the 
approach of the unconscious arouses a panic fear in civilized 
man, not least of all because of the threatening analogy to 
insanity. There is nothing questionable to -he intellect in 
describing the unconscious as a passive object; on the con- 
trary, such an activity would correspond' to rational expec- 
tations. But to let the unconscious happen and to experi- 
ence it as a reality — this exceeds the courage as well as the 
powers of the average Occidental. He prefers simply not to 
understand this problem. It is also better so for the weak in 
spirit, since this thing is not without its danger. 

The experiencing of the unconscious is a personal secret 
communicable only to the very few, and that with diffi- 
culty. It isolates the individual to whom it happens. But iso- 
lation effects a compensatory animation of the psychic at- 
mosphere, and this is uncanny. The figures that appear are 
feminine, whereby the feminine nature of the unconscious 
is pointed out. They are fiiries or beguiling sirens and lamias 
who infatuate the lonely wanderer and lead him astray . 4 

j. (Visual impression) A snake draws a circle about 
the dreamer. He stands like a tree, grown fast to the earth. 

The drawing of a spellbinding circle is the ancient 
magic means that everyone resorts to who has a singular 
and secret purpose. He protects himself with it against the 
perils of the soul that threaten from without and befall 
everyone who is isolated by a secret. On the other hand, men 
from of old have resorted to this means in order to demark 
a place as holy and inviolable; they would draw around it the 
sulcus primigenius, or original furrow, as, for instance, at 
the founding of cities.® That the dreamer stands rooted in 
the middle is a compensation for his almost insuperable urge 
to run away from the unconscious. After this vision he has 
a pleasant feeling of relief; rightly so, for he has succeeded 


in forming a protected enclosure, a region of taboo in which 
it becomes possible for him to experience the unconscious. 

His isolation, otherwise uncanny, is thereby elevated to 
an aim, endowed with purposeful meaning, and thus robbed 
of its fearfulness. 

6. (Visual impression, directly following upon 5 ) The 
veiled figure of a woman is seated upon a stair. 

The theme of the unknown woman, to which we have 
given, in an earlier chapter, the technical name of anima, 
here appears for the first time in this case and represents a 
personification of the animated psychic atmosphere like the 
many, indistinct feminine figures in the fourth dream. From 
now on, the figure of the unknown woman reappears in 
very many of the subject’s dreams. 

Personification always means autonomous activity of 
the unconscious. If the figure of a person presents itself, 
this means that the unconscious has begun to stir. The ac- 
tivity of such figures often bears the stamp of foreknowl- 
edge; that is, an activity to be exercised later on by the 
dreamer himself is anticipated. In this case the stair is in- 
dicated, which points to a going up or down. 

As the process unrolling in such dreams has a historical 
analogy in the rites of initiation, it may not be superfluous 
to point out that the planet stair of seven steps plays an 
important role in many of them, as we know, for instance, 
from Apuleius. The initiations of the late Graeco-Roman 
syncretism, which are already strongly permeated with al- 
chemy, occupy themselves particularly with the “ascent,” 
that is, sublimation. The ascent is also often represented by 
the ladder — whence the Egyptian burial gift of a small lad- 
der for the ka of the dead man. The idea of an ascent 
through the seven planetary spheres means the return of the 
soul to the solar godhead from which it took its rise (as we 



learn, for instance, from Firmicus Maternus) . Thus the mys- 
tery of Isis, which Apuleius has described for us in The 
Golden Ass, likewise culminates in what the alchemy of the 
early Middle Ages — transmitted by the Arabs directly 
from Alexandrian culture 6 — calls solificatio: the initiate is 
crowned as Helios, the sun. 

7. (Visual impression) The veiled woman uncovers 
her face. It shines like the sun. 

The solificatio is accomplished in the anima. This process 
corresponds, no doubt, to the ancient illuminatio. Now this 
conception, which might be called mystic, is in strong con- 
tradiction to the rationalistic attitude of consciousness, 
which recognizes only intellectual enlightenment as the high- 
est form of understanding and insight. This attitude, of 
course, does not reckon with the fact that scientific knowl- 
edge is satisfying only to the modern forefront of the per- 
sonality, but not to the collective psyche, which reaches 
back into grey antiquity and which always demands a par- 
ticular ritual when it is to be linked with present-day con- 
sciousness. Clearly, then, a lightening of the unconscious is 
in preparation, having far more the quality of the illumi- 
natio than of rational elucidation. The solificatio stands at 
an infinite distance from consciousness and seems to it almost 

8. (Visual impression) A rainbow is to be used as a 
bridge. Yet one must go, not over it, but through under- 
neath. Whoever goes over it falls to his death. 

Only gods succeed in walking on the rainbow bridge; 
mortals fall to their death, for the rainbow is only a beauti- 
ful semblance that stretches across the heavens, and not a 
road for corporeal human beings: they must go through 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 109 

underneath. But under bridges flows water, which follows 
its own gradient. This hint will be confirmed in what fol- 

9. (Dream) A green land where many sheep are at 
pasture. It is the "land of sheep.” 

This curious passage, inscrutable at first glance, may 
derive from childhood impressions, particularly of a re- 
ligious sort. In this connection they are not far to seek. For 
instance: "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,” 
in connection with the early Christian allegory of the sheep 
and the shepherd. The next piece points in this direction. 

10. (Visual impression) In the land of sheep stands 
the unknown woman and points the way. 

The anima, who has already anticipated the solificatio, 
here appears as the psychopomp showing the way. The way 
begins in the land of childhood, namely, in that time when 
the rational, present-day consciousness had not yet separated 
itself from the historic psyche, the collective unconscious. 
The separation is unavoidable, to be sure, but leads to such 
a divorce from that twilight psyche of old that a loss of in- 
stinct takes place. The result is an impoverishment of in- 
stinct and disorientation in the generally human situations. 
But it also follows from the separation that the "land of 
childhood” remains definitely infantile, and thus becomes an 
enduring source of childish inclinations and impulses. 

These intrusions are naturally most unwelcome to con- 
sciousness, so it consistently represses them. But the con- 
sistency of the repression only serves to bring about a still 
greater separation from the source, and intensifies the im- 
poverishment of instinct to such an extent that it amounts 
to barrenness of soul. As a result, either consciousness is com- 


pletely inundated with childishness or it must constantly 
defend itself — to no avail — against the latter with cynical 
agedness or with embittered resignation. 

It is necessary to understand that, in spite of its un- 
deniable successes, the reasonable attitude of present-day 
consciousness has become in many human respects childishly 
unadapted and therefore hostile to life. Life has grown dry 
and restricted, and therefore demands the discovery of the 
source. But the source cannot be found unless conscious- 
ness resigns itself to a return to the land of childhood in 
order to receive there, as before, the guidance from the un- 
conscious. Not only he who remains a child overlong is child- 
ish, but also he who separates himself from childhood and 
supposes that everything he does not see no longer exists. 
But whoever returns to the land of childhood succumbs to 
the fear of becoming childlike, not realizing that everything 
original to the psyche has a double face. The one looks 
forward, the other back. It is ambiguous and hence sym- 
bolic, like all living reality. 

In consciousness we stand upon a summit and child- 
ishly suppose that the way beyond leads to still greater 
heights above the summit. That is the chimerical rainbow 
bridge. But in order to reach the next peak we must first go 
down into that land where the roads just begin to part from 
each other. 

11. (Dream) A voice says, "But you are still a child.” 

This dream forces the recognition that even a differen- 
tiated consciousness has in no way made a clean sweep of 
childish things, and that a return to, the world of childhood 
has become necessary. 

12. (Dream) A dangerous wandering with father and 
mother up and down over many ladders. 


The childish consciousness is always attached to father 
and mother and never alone. A return to childhood is always 
a return to father and mother, to the whole burden of the 
psychic non-ego embodied in the parents, with its long, mo- 
mentous history. Regression means disintegration into the 
historical, hereditary determinants from whose embrace we 
can free ourselves only with the greatest effort. The psychic 
history of the past is, indeed, the spirit of weight, which 
needs steps and ladders because it cannot, like the bodiless 
and weightless intellect, fly when it wants to. Disintegra- 
tion into the multiplicity of historical determinants is like 
losing the way, like a disorientation in which even what is 
right resembles a disturbing error. 

No one can free himself from his childhood without 
first generously occupying himself with it, as we have long 
since found out from the Freudian researches. Nor is this 
freedom accomplished through mere intellectual knowledge; 
it can be effected only by a re-remembering, which is also 
a re-experiencing. Much childhood material remains undis- 
posed of in the psyche because of the rapid flow of the 
years ^and the overwhelming rush of the newly discovered 
world. We have not freed ourselves from it, but only re- 
moved ourselves from it. So if, in later years, we return to 
our childhood memories, we find there still living fragments 
of our own personalities, which lock us in their embraces 
and permeate us again with the feeling of our earlier days. 
Those fragments are still in the childhood state and for 
that reason strong and immediate. Only when they are joined 
again to the adult consciousness can they lose their infantile 
aspect and be corrected. This "personal unconscious” must 
always first be disposed of — that is to say, made conscious; 
otherwise, the entrance to the collective unconscious can- 
not be opened. The journey with father and mother, which 
leads up and down over many ladders, corresponds to this 
making conscious of infantile, still unintegrated contents. 


13. (Dream) The father calls anxiously, "That is the 

In the wandering over the many ladders an occurrence 
has obviously taken place that is spoken of as "the seventh.” 
In the language of initiation, the seventh corresponds to 
the highest stage, and would be the longed for and cov- 
eted. But to the traditional mind the solificatio is a strange, 
mystic, and hence nearly insane conception; people thought 
of such nonsense only in former ages, in the dark times of 
misty superstition, while the clear, purified mind of our 
enlightened age has long since outgrown such hazy notions, 
and to such a degree that only the madhouse now harbours 
illuminates of that kind. No wonder that the father is fear- 
fully anxious, like the hen that has hatched duck’s eggs and 
is driven to despair by the aquatic leanings of her progeny. 
If this interpretation is correct — that the seventh means the 
highest stage before the enlightenment — then, in principle, 
the process of the integration of the personal unconscious 
would actually have been terminated. After that, the dis- 
closure of the collective unconscious would begin, and that 
would sufficiently explain the anxiety of the father as the 
embodiment of the traditional mind. 

In any case, the return to the early twilight of the 
unconscious does not mean that one should now wholly 
renounce that valuable achievement of the fathers: the intel- 
lectual differentiation of consciousness. It is rather a ques- 
tion of the human being’s taking the place of the intellect. 

14. (Dream) The dreamer is in America and is look- 
ing for an employee with a pointed beardl It is said that 
everyone has such an employee. 

America, to this subject, is the land of practical, straight 
lines and is not under suspicion of European excess. In 


America people would regard the intellect in a practical 
way, as an employee. This sounds, to be sure, like lese- 
majesty, and could be a serious matter. So it is consoling 
to know that everyone (as is the case in America) does the 
same. He of the pointed beard is the well-known Mephisto, 
whom Faust also employed, and whom he did not allow to 
triumph finally over him, in spite of the fact that he, Faust, 
had dared to descend into the gloomy chaos of the historic 
psyche and had taken upon himself the mutable and not 
unquestionable life that arises from the fullness of chaos. 
The deposition of the intellect and, at the same time, the 
separation from the father, are thus accomplished. 

ij. (Dream) The mother pours water from one bowl 
into another. (Only in connection with dream 28 does the 
dreamer remember that this was the bowl of his sister.) 
This act is accomplished with great solemnity, as it is of 
the utmost importance to the surrounding world. Then the 
dreamer is cast out by the father. 

We meet here again with the theme of the exchange, 
introduced with the hat in the first dream. One thing is put 
in the place of another. The “father” is disposed of; now 
the action of the “mother” begins. 

As the father represents the collective consciousness, 
the traditional mind, so the mother stands for the collective 
unconscious, the source of the water of life. (Compare the 
motherly significance of the irvyij, 7 the fons sigmtus 8 as 
an attribute of Mary.) The unconscious transposes the loca- 
tion of the life forces, and thus a change of standpoint is 
indicated. The dreamer’s later act of remembrance enables 
us to recognize who it is that now becomes the source of 
life: it is the "sister.” The mother is placed above the son, 
while the sister is placed by his side. 

Thus the deposition of the intellect sets us free from 

1 14 the integration of the personality 

the supremacy of the unconscious, and therewith from in- 
fantilism. To be sure, the sister is still a remainder of the 
past, but we know definitely from later dreams that she was 
the bearer of the anima image. We may, therefore, assume 
that the transference of the water of life to the sister means 
at bottom the replacement of the mother by the anima. 

This is really a process of normal life, but one that 
usually takes place in a wholly unconscious way. The anima 
is an archetype that is always present. The mother is the 
first carrier of this image, and it is this that makes her fasci- 
nating and meaningful to the son. By way of the sister and 
other figures, the image is then transferred to the loved 

As a result of the replacement just mentioned, the 
anima becomes a life-bestowing factor, a psychic reality 
that stands in unbearable opposition to the world of the 
father. Who would be able, without endangering his mental 
health, to declare the guidance of the unconscious binding 
in his conduct of life, assuming that anyone exists who can 
imagine anything definite under this head? But whoever 
can imagine this in any way will, by that very fact, con- 
ceive what a tremendous insult such a change of view spells 
for the traditional spirit, and especially for the spirit that 
has clothed itself with an earthly body in the church. It was 
this subtle change of psychic standpoint that made the al- 
chemists resort to intentional mystification, and that stood 
godfather to all possible heresies. So, it is logical that the 
father thereupon casts him out, which means nothing else 
than excommunication. (The dreamer, be it noted, is a 

Whoever recognizes the psyche in its reality, and ac- 
cepts it at least as a co-determining, ethical factor, insults 
the traditional spirit, which has for many centuries regi- 
mented psychic behaviour from without through institu- 
tions as well as through reason. Not that unreasoning in- 


stinct of itself rebels against strongly consolidated order, for 
it is itself, through its conformity to inner laws, the most 
strongly consolidated structure and — what is more — the cre- 
ative source of all bounded order. But just because this 
source is creative, all order issuing from it, even in its “most 
godly” form, is succession and transition. Yet, all appear- 
ances to the contrary, every establishment of order and every 
dissolution of the established is at bottom beyond the reach 
of human caprice. The secret is this: only that possesses life 
which is able to annul itself again. 

It is well that these things are hard to understand and 
thus enjoy a beneficent secrecy, for weak minds are only too 
easily distracted by them and thrown into confusion. Effec- 
tive protection against all this is offered by dogma, whether 
of an ecclesiastical, philosophic, or scientific nature, and ex- 
communication is a necessary and useful consequence, from 
the social standpoint. But no evil is so great that it does not 
also have something of good in it. Thus, the excommunicate 
enjoys the inner freedom of the living spirit, which counter- 
balances the safety offered by dogma. 

The water that the mother, the unconscious, pours into 
the bowl of the anima is an apt symbol for the living qual- 
ity of psychic being. The ancient alchemists never wearied 
of thinking up expressive synonyms for it. They called it 
the aqua nostra also the mercurius vivus, the argentum 
vivum, the vivum ardens, the aqua vitce, the succus lunarice , 
and so on, by which they meant to characterize a living 
being not devoid of substance, in contrast to the incor- 
poreality necessarily attributed to the abstract spirit. The 
expression: succus lunarice points clearly enough to the noc- 
turnal nature of the source, and both aqua nostra and mer- 
curius vivus (quicksilver) to its earthliness. The acetum 
fontis is a powerful aqua fortis that, on the one hand,- dis- 
solves all things that have come into being, while on the 


other it leads to the most enduring of all structures, namely, 
to the mysterious lapis. 

These analogies from mediaeval alchemy must inevitably 
seem rather far-fetched. But at this point I may already refer 
to dreams 13 and 14 in the following, second section of this 
chapter, where this symbolism is taken up again. The parallels 
that I cite are chiefly derived from the Latin literature of 
the twelfth to fourteenth centuries, one of the most inter- 
esting texts being the Rosarium, by an anonymous author. 
Like other texts of the period, it reflects much older sources, 
even the Greek, through the mediation of Arabic writing. 
To this author, as to all the "philosophic” alchemists, the 
transmutation of gold was by no means taken literally; they 
treated it, rather, as a symbol of transformation embracing 
psychic change. This is why their writings have a direct 
bearing upon the process of individuation, and why this 
obscure field yields such important parallels to the activity 
of the unconscious — as I shall try to show in the later chapter 
on alchemy. 

The importance of the action "to the surrounding 
world,” which the dreamer himself noticed, points to the 
collective dimensions of this dream, as also to the fact that 
a decision is offered that strongly influences the attitude of 
the dreamer. 

That old proverb, extra ecclesiam nulla salus — outside 
the church there is no welfare — rests on the knowledge that 
an institution is an assured, passable way, with a definite 
aim that is visible or expressible, whereas outside of it no 
ways and no aims are to be discovered. We must not under- 
estimate the fact that to be thus lost in chaos means a bitter 
shock, even when we know that ■ it is the indispensable 
prerequisite of every renewal of the spirit. 

1 6. (Dream) An ace of clubs lies before him. Beside 
it appears a seven. 


The ace, as a one, is the lowest and, as ace, the highest 
card. The ace of clubs, with its cross fprm, points to the 
basic Christian symbol; it will recur in another guise in the 
twenty-third dream of the second series. In Swiss-German 
the club is also called "Chriiz” (cross) . At the same time, its 
trifoliate character contains an allusion to the threefold na- 
ture of the one God. Lowest and highest is the beginning 
and the end, the alpha and omega. 

After, and not before, the ace of clubs appears the 
seven. Thus the sentence perhaps runs: The Christian con- 
ception of God, and after that the seven (stages) . The seven 
changes symbolize the transformation. This begins with the 
symbol of the cross and of the Trinity, and, according to 
the earlier, archaizing allusion in dream 7, would culminate 
in the solificatio. But this solution is not indicated here. Now, 
we are acquainted from the Middle Ages with a transition 
that differs from that regression to the classic Helios which 
Julian the Apostate attempted without success. This is the 
transition to the rose expressed in the formula per crucem 
ad rosam — through the cross to the rose — and condensed 
to the rose cross (Rosicrucian) of the late Middle Ages. 
Here the tokens of the solar nature descend from the heav- 
enly Sol into the flower, earth’s answer to the solar coun- 
tenance. (The solar quality has survived in the symbol of 
the "golden flower” of Chinese and mediaeval alchemy.) A 
last sentimental reminiscence of the "rose” might well be 
the "blue flower” of the Romantics, which in true romantic 
fashion looks back to the Middle Ages of ruined cloisters, 
yet with the modesty of a violet proclaims something new in 
its lovely earthiness. 

But the golden lustre of the sun had also to accept the 
descent, and found its analogy in the glitter of earthly gold, 
which as aurum nostrum was set apart, at least for subtler 
minds, from the gross materiality of the metal. For these it 
was undoubtedly of symbolic nature, and was therefore dis- 


tinguished by such attributes as potabile or philosophicum. 
The Rosarium, indeed, declares that "our gold is not the 
gold of the general crowd.” It is perhaps just its too obvious 
analogy to the sun that denied it the attainment of the 
highest philosophical dignity, which fell instead to the lapis 
philosophorum. For higher in rank than that which is 
changed stood that which effects change, and to do this is 
one of the magic powers of the wonderful stone. The Ro- 
sarium also says, quia lapis nos ter scilicet argentum vivum 
occidentale, quod prcetulit se auro et vicit illud, est illud 
quod occidit et vivere facit — "because it is our stone, 
the living silver of the West, which has preferred itself to 
the gold and conquered it, that slays and makes alive.” The 
following textual passage from a treatise ascribed to Hermes 
is particularly enlightening as to the "philosophical” signifi- 
cance of the lapis: Intelligite, filii sapientum, quod hie lapis 
preciosissimus clamet; . . . et lumen meum omne lumen 
superat ac mea bona omnibus bonis sunt sublimiora . . . 
Ego gigno lumen, tenebree autem naturae mece sunt . . . : 9 
"Understand, sons of the wise, what this most worthy stone 
might exclaim . . . and my light conquers every light, and 
my goods are more sublime than all other goods ... I be- 
get the light, but the darkness also is of my nature. . . .” 

17. (Dream) A long wandering. He finds a blue 
flower along the way. 

To wander is to tread aimless paths; therefore, it is also 
to search for and undergo transformation. And now a blue 
flower blossoms aimlessly beside his path, an accidental child 
of nature reminding him in a friendly way of romantic 
lyricism, having budded in a youthful season when the pic- 
ture of the world drawn by science had not as yet painfully 
divorced itself from the actual experience of the world, or 
when the parting just began, and the backward glance al- 


ready looked upon things of the past. It is, in fact, like a 
friendly greeting, a numen of the unconscious. It points 
out to him who is bereft of the certainty of his way and 
of his membership in the things that mean the welfare of 
man, the historic spot where he meets friends and brothers 
in spirit and finds the seed that wishes to unfold in him 
also. But the dreamer as yet suspects nothing of the ancient 
solar gold that connects the innocent flower by a backward 
step with the repulsive elements of alchemy and with the 
heathen frivolity of the solificatio. 

18. (Dream) A man offers him gold coins in the palm 
of his hand. But the Indignant dreamer throws them on the 
ground and immediately afterward deeply regrets his action. 
Then, in an enclosure, a variety performance takes place. 

Here the blue flower has already begun to draw histori- 
cal consequences in its train. The “gold” is offered and is 
indignantly rejected. To be sure, the misinterpretation of 
the aurum philosophicum is understandable. But scarcely has 
it occurred, when there comes a pang of remorse that the 
valuable secret was rejected and that a wrong answer was 
thus given to the question of the Sphinx. The same thing 
happened to the hero of The Golem , when the ghost offered 
him a handful of grain and he refused it. The gross ma- 
teriality of the yellow metal with its odious connotation of 
the standard of value, as well as the unattractiveness of the 
grain, makes the rejection comprehensible; it is so hard to 
find the lapis, because it is exilis — unattractive; because in 
via ejectus invenitur, because it is the cheapest of things and 
is found everywhere, in planitie, in montibus et aquis. It 
shares this “ordinary” aspect with Spitteler’s jewel in Prome- 
theus and Epimetheus, for which reason, also, it is unrecog- 
nized by all the worldly-wise. But the lapis in via ejectus 
might also become the angularis ; the stone that was rejected 


might become the cornerstone. The sense of this possibility 
awakens the strongest remorse in the dreamer. 

That the gold is minted — in other words, shaped, 
stamped, and appraised — is a banality of the external aspect. 
Applied to the things of the psyche, this is what Nietzsche 
declines in TLaratlxustra, namely, the giving of names to the 
virtues. By the acts of shaping and naming, psychic being is 
disintegrated into minted and appraised units. But this is pos- 
sible for the single reason that it is from its origins a plurality, 
a heaping together of unintegrated, hereditary units. Natural 
man is no self, but a particle of a mass, and even a mass, an 
aggregate, to such a degree that he is not even sure of his "I.” 
For this reason the mysteries of transformation have been 
needed since primeval times to make him into "something” 
and to tear him away from the animal, collective psyche, 
which is a mere multiplicity. 

But if the unattractive multiplicity of the "given” hu- 
man being is cast aside, then his integration, his birth into 
selfhood, is precluded. And that is spiritual death. The 
requisite for real life is not that life should happen in and 
for itself, but that it should also be known. Only a unified 
personality can experience life; an occurrence split up into 
partial aspects, though it likewise call itself a human being, 
cannot do so. The dangerous multiplicity already alluded to 
in dream 4 is compensated by dream 5, where the serpent 
protectively draws the spellbinding circle and thus demarks 
the region of taboo, the temenos, which in ancient times sig- 
nified a piece of land or a grove consecrated to the god. So, 
in a similar situation, there arises here the symbol of the 
temenos, in which the "many” now meet together in a 
unified action — an enjoyable gathering in its superficial as- 
pect, but one that will shortly lose its pleasant character. 
The goat-song becomes tragedy. The satyr-play, according 
to all analogy, was a mystery rite whose presumable purpose 
was to link the human being regressively to the ranks of 


his natural ancestors and so to the source of life — much as 
people supposed that the recounting of obscene stories, the 
aiffxpoXoyla of the Athenian ladies in the ceremonies of the 
Eleusinian mysteries, was good for the fruitfulness of the 
earth. 10 (Compare also Herodotus’ account of the exhibi- 
tions in connection with the festivals of Isis in Bubastis.) 

The allusion to the compensatory significance of the 
temenos, however, remains for the present vague to the 
dreamer. We can understand that he is far more occupied 
with the danger of spiritual death, which is evoked by the 
rejection of the historical relationships. 

19. (Visual impression) A death’s-head. He wishes to 
kick it aside, but cannot. Gradually the skull changes into 
a red ball, then into a woman’s head, which emits light. 

The skull monologues of Faust and Hamlet remind one 
of the shocking senselessness of human existence, provided 
that "the pale cast of thought” is spread over it. It was 
opinions and judgements transmitted from the past that in- 
duced the dreamer to dash aside the unappreciated or un- 
attractive offering. But when he tries to shield himself from 
the uncanny vision, the dead man’s skull turns into the red 
ball, which we may doubtless regard as an allusion to the 
rising sun, for it changes at once into the shining woman’s 
head, reminding us directly of vision 7. Clearly, an enantio- 
dromia, a play of opposites, has here taken place; after the 
rejection, the unconscious comes out only the more strongly, 
first of all with the ancient symbol of unity and of the 
divinity of the self, the sun, and then passing over to the 
theme of the unknown woman, who personifies the uncon- 
scious. This theme, of course, comprises not only the arche- 
type of the anima, but also the relationship to real woman 
who is, on the one hand, human personality and, on the 


other, a vessel of psychic being; a theme introduced in the 
fifteenth dream by the "bowl of the sister.” 

In the Neo-Platonic philosophy the soul has an out- 
spoken relation with the form of the sphere. The soul sub- 
stance is spread above the heaven of fire around the concen- 
tric spheres of the four elements. 11 

20. (Visual impression) A globe. The unknown 
woman stands upon it praying to the sun. 

This impression is an expansion of 7. The rejection ob- 
viously signified a destruction of the whole development up 
to dream 18. That is why the initial symbols reappear at this 
point although now in amplified form. Such enantiodromias 
are characteristic for unconscious sequences in general. With- 
out the intervention of consciousness the unconscious would 
persist in its ineffective wave motion, like the treasure of 
which it is said that it bujrgeons upward for nine years, nine 
months and nine nights, and that, if it is not found in the 
last night, it sinks down again to begin the game anew. 

The globe perhaps issues from the idea of the red ball. 
Whereas this was the sun, the globe is more probably a pic- 
ture of the earth, upon which the anima stands and prays to 
the sun. The anima and the sun are thus distinguished from 
each other, and the fact is pointed out that the sun denotes 
a principle differing from the anima. The latter is a personi- 
fication of the unconscious. But the sun is a symbol of the 
wellspring of life and of the final wholeness of man (as 
hinted in the solificatio ) . Now, the sun is a classic symbol 
that even yet stands very close to us. We likewise know that 
the Christians of the first centuries had some difficulty in 
distinguishing the &vaTo\rjs from Christ. 12 The anima 

of the dreamer seems still to be a sun worshipper; that is, 
she is essentially Graeco-Roman, and this for the reason that 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 123 

a rationalistically oriented consciousness had occupied itself 
with her little or not at all, and in consequence had not 
allowed her to modernize (or better, to Christianize) herself. 
It almost seems as if the anima had been caused to regress 
to antiquity by the differentiation of the intellect that grew 
out of the Christian Middle Ages through scholastic training. 
The Renaissance provides us with evidence enough on this 
point; the clearest of all is the Ipnerotomacbia of Polifilo, 
who found his anima — Lady Polia — in the house of Queen 
Venus, unencumbered by any vestige of Christianity, but 
graced with all the virtutes of the classic age. (Polifilo’s cen- 
tury was justified in holding his book for a mystery text.) 
With this anima, then, we plunge into the classic world. So 
I would not regard it as an error if anyone should explain 
the above-described enantiodromia ex effectu as an evasion 
of the dubious and unseemly regression to the classic world. 
Textually, the basic teachings of alchemistic philosophy go 
directly back to the late Grjeco-Roman syncretism, as Rusca, 
for instance, has sufficiently established in the case of the 
Turba. Allusion to alchemy, accordingly, is sufficient in itself 
to lead one to suspect the classic and to fear a regression to 
early heathen stages. 

It is perhaps not superfluous to point out here, with all 
due emphasis, that the dreamer had no conscious suspicion of 
all these things. Yet through the unconscious he has plunged 
into these connections known to us through their expression 
in history, and therefore behaves in his dreams as if he were 
a connoisseur of these curious processes of cultural history. 
But, as an unconscious personality, he is actually an exponent 
of the unconscious development of symbols, just as was the 
alchemist of the Middle Ages or the Neo-Platonist of antiq- 
uity. One might indeed say, with reservations, that it is pos- 
sible to write history from his unconscious contents just as 
well as from the texts that are objectively present. 



21. (Visual impression) He is surrounded by nymphs. 
A voice says, “But we were always there. Only you did not 
notice us.” 

Here the regression goes even further back to an antiq- 
uity that is out of question. At the same time the situation 
of dream 4 is taken up again along with the rejection situa- 
tion of 18, which had led to the enantiodromia of 19. To be 
sure, the picture is once again enlarged, for there is subjoined 
to it a recognition, hallucinatory in its nature, that the state 
of affairs in question has always existed and was merely un- 
noticed up till now. With the establishment of this fact, the 
unconscious psyche is joined to consciousness as a coexistent 
entity. The phenomenon of the "voice” has always for the 
dreamer the final and indisputable character of the avrds t<f>a. 
Whenever the voice appears, then a state is reached that 
can no longer be seriously held in doubt. The fact that con- 
tact with distant times — that is, with deep layers of the 
psyche — has taken place, is accepted by the unconscious per- 
sonality of the dreamer and communicates itself also to con- 
sciousness as a feeling of relative security. Therefore, the 
introitus can continue a step further. 

22. (Visual impression) He is in a primeval forest. An 
elephant is somewhat threatening; then a large ape man or 
bear or cave man with a club, who threatens to attack the 
dreamer. Suddenly he of the “pointed beard” is there and 
fixes the assailant with his gaze in such a way that the latter 
is held off by its spell. But the dreamer is in great fear. The 
voice says, “Everything must be ruled by the light.” 

The multiplicity of the nymphs has broken down into 
still more primitive components; that is, the animation of 
the psychic atmosphere has reached a considerably higher 
pitch, from which one must conclude that the isolation of 


the individual from his contemporaries has proportionally 
increased. The augmented isolation can easily be referred to 
dream 21, where the union with the uncoiiscious was actually 
established and accepted. This fact, regarded by conscious- 
ness as highly irrational, constitutes a secret that must be 
anxiously shielded, for naturally we cannot come to an 
understanding with any so-called reasonable person as to its 
justification. If we should impart the secret, we would there- 
upon be branded a complete idiot. As a result, the draining 
off of the libido into the surrounding world is considerably 
hampered, and there results a plus of energy on the uncon- 
scious side, whence the abnormal increase of the autonomy of 
the unconscious figures, culminating in aggression and actual 
fear. The variety show of unconscious figures, which was 
formerly enjoyable, now begins to grow uncomfortable. One 
can still easily accept classic nymphs with the help of aesthetic 
embellishments, for one in no way suspects, behind these 
gracious figures, the Dionysiac secret of antiquity, the satyr- 
play and its tragic implication — the bloody dismemberment 
of the god become a beast. Was not a Nietzsche called for 
to expose in its whole weakness the grammar-school view of 
antiquity held by every European? And what did Dionysus 
mean to him! One must surely take seriously what Nietzsche 
himself says about it, and even more so what happened to 
him. He doubtless knew, in the prodromal stage of his fatal 
disease, that the gloomy fate of Zagreus was appointed for 
him. Dionysus signifies the depths of the passionate dissolu- 
tion of all human particularity in the animal divinity of the 
aboriginal soul — a blessed and terrible experience that a hu- 
manity strongly hedged within its culture believes it has 
escaped, till it succeeds once again in giving rein to a new 
orgy of blood about which all well-minded persons wonder, 
and for which they blame high finance, the armament indus- 
try, the Jews and the Freemasons. 

At the last moment, the friend with the pointed beard 


appears upon the stage as a deus ex machina to help the 
dreamer, and averts by a spell the threatened destruction 
by the momentous ape man. Who knows how much Faust’s 
calm curiosity before the apparitions of the classical Wal- 
purgis Night was indebted to the helpful presence of Me- 
phisto with his contemporary, matter-of-fact standpoint. 
We could wish for many a person that he would bethink 
himself in good time of scientific or philosophic reflection, of 
the much-abused intellect. Whoever abuses it comes under 
suspicion of never having had the experience that could show 
him what the intellect is good for, and why humanity has 
forged this weapon at the cost of unprecedented effort. Not 
to notice this requires an extraordinary remoteness from life. 
No doubt, the intellect is the devil, but he is "the whimsical 
son of chaos” to whom we would soonest grant the capacity 
to deal effectively with his mother. The Dionysiac experi- 
ence gives the devil, who seeks employment, enough to do, 
for the coming to terms with the unconscious, which now 
follows, far outweighs the labours of Hercules. It seems to 
me to present a world of problems that the intellect cannot 
settle even in centuries, for which reason it has taken fre- 
quent vacations to recreate itself with easier tasks. This is 
why the psyche is forgotten so frequently and for so long, 
and why the intellect so often makes use of the apotropaic 
sorcerer’s wand and calls the psyche "occult” and "mystic,” 
hoping that even intelligent persons will take this accusation 

The voice finally declares, "Everything must be ruled 
by the light,” by which is doubtless meant the light of the 
discerning consciousness, the real and honestly acquired 
illuminatio. The dark depths of the unconscious are no 
longer to be denied out of ignorance or out of sophistry 
inspired by plain fear, poorly dissembled; nor are they to be 
explained away by pseudo-scientific rationalizations; but it 
must now be admitted that there are things in our psyche 


about which we know too little or nothing at all, possessing 
at least the same degree of reality as all those things of the 
physical world that we also do not finally understand and 
that nevertheless affect our bodies in the most persevering 
way. No research ever led to knowledge by asserting of its 
object that it was irrelevant. 

With the active intervention of the intellect a new 
phase in the unconscious process begins, namely, the coming 
to terms of the conscious mind with the figures of the un- 
known woman, the anima, the unknown man, the shadow, 
the old wise man or "mana personality,” and the symbols of 
the self. The second part of this chapter will occupy itself 
with these. 

The Mandala Symbolism 

As mentioned above, I have put together, out of a con- 
nected series of four hundred dreams, all those I regard as 
mandala dreams. I have chosen the term "mandala” because 
this word denotes the ritualistic or magical circle employed 
in Lamaism and also in the Tantric yoga as a y antra, or aid 
to contemplation. The Eastern mandalas used in ceremonial 
are formations fixed by tradition, and are not only drawn 
or painted, but are even represented bodily in certain ritual- 
istic celebrations. I refer the reader to Zimmer’s exposition 
in Kunstform und Yoga tin indischen Kultbild , 13 as well 
as to "Wilhelm and Jung, The Secret of the Golden Flower. 

It seems to me unquestionable that even in the East these 
symbols originally came from dreams and visions, and were 
not invented by some church father of the Mahayana per- 
suasion. Indeed, they are among the oldest religious symbols 
of humankind, and are perhaps to be found even in the 
Palaeolithic age, as suggested in part by the Rhodesian rock 
drawings. Moreover, they are distributed over the whole 
world, a point I will not insist on here. In this section I 


wish merely to show, in examples taken from actual experi- 
ence, how the mandalas arise. 

The mandalas employed in ceremonial always have great 
importance, for they contain at the centre a figure of the 
highest religious significance: either Shiva himself — generally 
embracing the Shakti — or Buddha, Amitabha, Avaloki- 
teshvara or one of the great teachers of Mahayana. Or it is 
simply the Dorje, the symbol of the union of all the divine 
powers, whether of a creative or a destructive nature. The 
text of The Golden Flower, which derives from the Taoistic 
syncretism, specifies in addition certain "alchcmistic” prop- 
erties of the centre, resembling the qualities of the lapis as 
well as of the elixir vita;, and thus lends it the attribute of a 
4 >apiJ.aKOP adavaalas or rrjs ^corjs . 14 

It is to our purpose to recognize this high valuation, 
for it accords with the significance that attaches to the in- 
dividual mandala symbols, and these exemplify the same 
"metaphysical” qualities, if I may so use the term to charac- 
terize the peculiar utterance of the dream. Indeed, they rep- 
resent — unless I am wholly deceived — a psychic centre of the 
personality that is not identical with the "I.” 

For some twenty years I have observed these processes 
and formations in dealing with fairly extensive materials 
drawn from experience. During fourteen years I have neither 
written nor lectured about it, in order not to prejudice my 
observations. But when in 1929 Richard "Wilhelm laid before 
me the text to The Golden Flower, I decided to publish the 
results of my observations at least in a fragmentary way. 
One cannot be careful enough in these matters, for all too 
many persons snatch at such "magical” themes and apply 
them externally like a salve, being misled, on the one hand, 
by a compulsion to imitate and, on the other, by a morbid 
desire to possess themselves of outlandish feathers and deck 
themselves in this exotic plumage. 

People will resort to any external means, even the most 


absurd, in order to escape from their own psyches. They 
practise Indian yoga of every denomination, observe rules of 
diet, learn theosophy by heart, pray according to mystic 
texts culled from the literature of the whole world — all this, 
because they are dissatisfied with themselves and lack every 
glimmer of faith that anything useful could come out of 
their own psyches. In this way the psyche has little by little 
become that Nazareth from which nothing good can come; 
and for this reason people seek it in the four corners of the 
world, the farther off and the more out of the way the better. 

I do not mean in any way to disturb such people in their 
pet occupations. But if someone who wishes to be taken 
seriously is equally deluded and believes that I apply the 
methods and teachings of yoga — perhaps even have mandalas 
drawn — in order to lead my patients to the "right point,” 
then I must protest and accuse these people of having read 
my writings with positively criminal inattention. They must 
have deeply ingrained in them the very questionable teaching 
that all evil thoughts arise from the heart, and that the 
human soul is the vessel of all wickedness. If this teaching 
were true, then God must have made an eternally sorry job 
of creation, and it would really be high time to turn aside 
with Marcion the Gnostic and give the incompetent demi- 
urge the sack. To be sure, there is no greater ethical con- 
venience than to relinquish to God the sole responsibility 
for such an idiotic children’s home — as they conceive the 
world to be — where no one is able to put the spoon into his 
own mouth. 

A human being is worth the effort of being concerned 
with himself, and he harbours within his own psyche that 
from which something can arise. It is rewarding to observe 
patiently what happens, quietly, in the psyche, and the most 
and the best happens when nothing is instilled from without 
and above by regimentation. I gladly admit that I have such 
reverence for what happens in the human psyche that I 


would be afraid of disturbing and distorting the still ways 
of nature by clumsy efforts of my own. But, in this case, I 
renounced even the activity of an observer, and entrusted 
this duty to a beginner not encumbered with my knowledge 
— all this, in order to avoid disturbance. The results, which I 
merely make public, are, therefore, the pure, conscientious, 
and exact observations of himself by a man of untroubled 
intellect, upon whom no one has foisted anything and who 
would not allow anything to be foisted upon him. Those 
who are really familiar with psychic material will easily 
recognize the authenticity and directness of the results. In 
the second series of dreams, which follows, we shall best 
begin, for the sake of completeness, with an enumeration of 
the mandala symbolism in the initial dreams already dis- 
cussed : 

1. (Visual impression) A serpent that describes a 
circle around the dreamer. This was the fifth "dream” in 
the first series. 

2. (Dream) Blue flower. This was the seventeenth 
dream of the initial series. 

3. (Dream) Man with gold coins in his hand. Enclos- 
ure for a variety show. Both these symbols occurred in the 
eighteenth dream. 

4. (Visual impression) Red ball, dream 19, and 

y. Globe, dream 20. 

Dreams: Second Series 

6. (Dream) An unknown woman follows him. He 
keeps running in a circle. 

The serpent in the first mandala dream was anticipative. 
It is often the case that a figure personifying a certain aspect 
of the unconscious behaves or suffers in a way that will be 


the subject’s own experience later on. The serpent indicates 
a circular movement in which the subject himself is after- 
ward involved. This is to say that something perceived as 
a circular movement takes place in the unconscious, and this 
happening then presses into consciousness with the result that 
the subject is himself gripped by it. The unknown woman or 
anima represents the unconscious, which continues to vex 
the dreamer until he falls into the circular movement. This 
in itself supplies a potential centre that is not identical with 
the ego. But the latter rotates around the centre. 

7. (Dream) The anima accuses him of being too little 
concerned about her. There is a watch there according to 
which it is .five minutes before . . . ? 

The situation is much the same; the unconscious dis- 
turbs him like an exacting woman. From this there arises the 
watch, on which the -pointer goes around in a circle. Five 
minutes before . . . means a certain state of tension for 
any man who lives by the watch, for when the five minutes 
are up, then one must do this or that. Perhaps, even, one 
is in a hurry. (As will become clear later on, the symbol of 
the circle is always accompanied by a feeling of tension.) 

8. (Dream) On a ship. He occupies himself with a 
new method of taking the bearings of a point. Now it is too 
far, again too near; the right spot is in the middle. There 
is a map on which is drawn a circle with the centre. 

The task presented here is clearly to determine the cen- 
tre, the correct spot. This is the centre of a circle. It oc- 
curred to the dreamer as he was writing down a dream that 
he had dreamed shortly before of target shooting ; now he 
shot too high, and again too low. The right aim lay in the 
middle. Both dreams seemed to him highly significant . (Com- 


pare what was said above about the Eastern mandalas.) The 
target is a circle with a centre. The location at sea is de- 
termined by the celestial bodies apparently rotating around 
the earth. 

9. (Dream) A pendulum clock that keeps on running 
without the weights sinking. 

It is a kind of clock whose hands turn without ceasing , 
there being obviously no loss due to friction; it is, therefore, 
a perpetuum mobile, an eternal circular movement. Here 
we come upon a "metaphysical” attribute. As observed, I 
use this word in the psychological sense, and not literally. I 
mean by this that I take eternity as a quality predicated by 
the unconscious, and not as a hypostasis, a subsistent prin- 
ciple. The statement in the dream is clearly objectionable to 
the scientific discrimination of the dreamer, but the mandala 
is able to lend this statement a peculiar significance. Very 
important things are just as often rejected because they seem 
to contradict reason and put it to an unbearable test. The 
movement without friction shows the clock to be cosmic, 
even transcendental; in any case, it raises the question of a 
quality that escapes from the time-space dimensions of the 
psychic phenomenon expressing itself in the mandala. And 
this denotes something so different from the empirical ego 
that the gap is difficult to bridge. 

10. (Dream) The dreamer finds himself in the Peter- 
hof in Zurich with the doctor, the man with the pointed 
beard, and the doll woman. She is an unknown woman who 
does not speak and is not spoken to: Question: to which of 
the three does the woman belong? 

The tower of St. Peter’s in Zurich has a strikingly large 
clock face. The Peterhof is an enclosure, a- temenos in the 


word’s truest sense, a place belonging to the church. The 
four find themselves in this enclosure. The circle of the 
clock is divided into quarters like the horizon. The dreamer 
represents his own "7”; he of the pointed beard, the intellect 
as “employee” (Mephisto) ; and the “doll woman” the 
anima. The doll is an object for the child, and so an apt ex- 
pression for the non-ego nature of the anima, being further 
characterized as object by the fact that she “is not spoken 
to.” This negative aspect (also present in dreams 6 and 7 
above) points to the deficient relationship between conscious- 
ness and the unconscious, as does likewise the question to 
whom the "unknown woman” belongs. The “doctor” is also 
a part of the non-ego, and perhaps covers a passing allusion 
to myself. The man with the pointed beard, on the other 
hand, belongs to the ego. This situation reminds us directly 
of the relation in the scheme of functions. If we think of the 
functions of consciousness as arranged in a circle, then the 
most differentiated function is generally the carrier of the 
ego, and is usually coupled with an auxiliary function. The 
so-called "inferior” function, on the other hand, is uncon- 
scious and for that reason projected upon a non-ego. It also 
has an auxiliary function proper to it. It is thus not impos- 
sible that the four persons represent the four functions as 
components of the total personality, including the uncon- 
scious. But this totality is ego plus non-ego. Hence the centre 
of the circle as an expression of wholeness would correspond 
not to the "I,” but to the self as epitome of the total per- 
sonality. (The centre with the circle is also a sufficiently 
well-known allegory of the nature of God.) In the philoso- 
phy of the Upanishads the self is first of all the personal 
atman, but the latter is also the superpersonal atman with 
cosmic and metaphysical qualities. 

In Gnosticism, too, we meet with similar conceptions. 
I may mention the ideas of the anthropos, of the pleroma, 
of the monads, and of the spark of light in a treatise of the 

134 THE INTEGRATION of the personality 

Codex Brucianus : 18 "This same is he (Monogenes) who 
dwellcth in the Monad, which is in the Setheus, and which 
came from the place of which none can say where it is . . . 
From Him it is the Monad came, in the manner of a ship, 
laden with all good things, and in the manner of a field, 
filled or planted with every kind of tree, and in the manner 
of a city, filled with all races of mankind . . . This is the 
fashion of the Monad, all these being in it. There are twelve 
Monads as a crown upon its head . . . And to its veil which 
surroundeth it in the manner of a defence (Trvpyos) there 
are twelve Gates . . . This same is the Mother-City 
(/i7/rp67roXts) of the Only-begotten (/lovoyfprjs). ” 

I must add for the sake of clarity that Setheus is a name 
for God designating the creator. Monogenes is the Son of 
God. The comparison of the Monad to a field and a city 
corresponds to the idea of a temenos. The Monad is likewise 
crowned. Compare with this the "hat” in the first dream 
of the first series and the thirty-fifth dream of the second 
series (I:i and 11:3 j) . As metropolis, the Monad is feminine, 
like the padma — lotus — the basic form of the Lamaistic 
mandala. (In China, the Golden Blossom; in the Occident, 
the Rose and the Golden Flower.) In it dwells the Son of 
God, the created God. (Buddha, Shiva, etc., in the lotus. 
Christ in the Rose, in Mary’s womb. The seeding place of 
the Diamond Body in the Golden Flower. This theme recurs 
in the animal transformation in the square enclosure, of the 
sixteenth dream of this series.) 

In the Johannine Apocalypse we meet with the Lamb 
in the centre of the Heavenly Jerusalem. (The vision of 
Ezekiel frequently served as a model.) In our text it is also 
stated that Setheus dwelt in the holy of holies of the pleroma, 
a city with four gates. (Similarly in India: the city of 
Brahma on the World-Mountain Meru.) There is a Monad in 
each gate. 16 (Compare the Vajra-mandala appended to The 
Secret of the Golden Flower, where the great Dorje is found 


in the centre surrounded by twelve smaller ones, like the 
Single Monad crowned with twelve monads. Moreover, there 
is a Dorje in each of the four gates.) To the four gates of the 
city correspond the limbs of the anthropos who has arisen 
from the Autogenes (the Monogenes). The Monad is a 
spark of light (spinther) and an image of the Father, iden- 
tical with the Monogenes. An invocation runs: "Thou art 
the House and the Dweller in the House.” 17 The Monogenes 
stands upon a reTpdirefa, 18 a table or stage with four col- 
umns, corresponding to the quaternion of the Four Evangel- 
ists. (Compare Irenseus, III, XI, and Clemens, Stromat. V, 
VI. Likewise the tetramorph as the saddle-beast of the 

The idea of the lapis is connected at several points with 
these conceptions. So, according to the Rosarium, Hermes 
has the lapis say: Me igitur et filio mea conjuncto, nil melius 
ac venerabilius in mundo fieri potest: 10 "Therefore there can 
exist nothing nobler and more venerable in the world than 
I together with my son.” The Monogenes is also called, in 
the Coptic Treatise, p. 87, "the dark light.” The Rosarium 
makes Hermes say: Ego lapis gigno lumen, tcnebrce autem 
natures mece sunt: "I, the lapis, beget the light, yet the dark- 
ness is of my nature.” 

The following passage in the Tractatus Aureus 20 shows 
an interesting parallel to the Monogenes who dwells in the 
bosom of the Mother-City and who is actually identical with 
the crowned Monad wrapped in the veil: "The King, the 
Ruler, saith: I am crowned, and I am adorned with a diadem; 
I am clothed with the Royal Garment, and I bring joy and 
gladness of heart; for, being chained to the arms and breast 
of my mother, and to her substance, I cause my substance 
to keep together; and I compose the invisible from the visible, 
making the occult matter to appear. And everything which 
the philosophers have hidden will be generated from us.” 

To be sure, the text does not say that the "King” coin- 


cides with the lapis, but the characteristics that he ascribes 
to himself are those of the lapis. What is more, the lapis is the 
"Master,” as appears from the following passage of the 
Rosarium: Et sic Philosophies non est Magister lapidis, sed 
potius minister: "And so the Philosopher is not the master 
of the lapis, but rather the servant.” 

The final production of the lapis in the form of the 
crowned hermaphrodite is called the / Enigma Regis. A Ger- 
man stanza referring to the /Enigma, runs: 

Hie ist geboren der Keyser aller ehren, 

Kein hoher mag uber jn geboren werden. 

Mit kunst, oder durch die natur, 

Von keiner lebendigen creatur. 

Die Philosophy heissen jn jhren Suhn, 

Er vermag alles, was sie thun. 

"Here is born the glory of every Kaiser, 

Than he none ; can be born who is higher, 

By any art or yet through nature 
Out of any living creature. 

The Philosophers call him their son, 

He can do all that they have done.” 

The last two verses could apply directly to the concluding 
sentence of the citation from Hermes, given above. 

It seems as if the thought had dawned upon the alchem- 
ists that the classic (and Christian) conception of the Son 
eternally dwelling in the Father and revealing Himself to 
humankind as a gift from God was something that man him- 
self could engender from his own nature, with the assistance 
of God, to be sure ( Deo concedente) . The heresy of this 
thought is reason enough for mystification. 

The feminine nature of the inferior function springs 
from its contamination with the unconscious. Because the 
unconscious has feminine traits, it is personified in the anima 
— that is to say, for man; the case is reversed for woman. 


Let us now assume that in this dream and in those 
preceding it something is actually meant that rightly arouses 
in the dreamer a feeling of great significance; and let us 
further assume that this significance corresponds to the view- 
points presented in the commentary; we would then have 
reached a high point of intuitive introspection that cannot 
be surpassed in daring. The eternal pendulum clock is in itself 
a mouthful hard to digest, at least for a consciousness un- 
ready to receive it, and it might easily cripple an over- 
venturesome flight of thought. 

1 1 . (Dream) The dreamer, the doctor, a pilot, and the 
unknown woman are travelling in a flying machine. Suddenly 
a croquet ball shatters the mirror, an indispensable instru- 
ment of navigation, and the flying machine falls. Here again 
the question: To whom does the unknown woman belong? 

Doctor, pilot, and unknown woman are characterized 
as parts of the non-ego: all three of them are strangers. Thus 
the dreamer remains possessed only of the most differentiated 
function, which is to say that the unconscious has won con- 
siderable ground. The croquet ball is part of the game in 
which a ball is driven through a wicket (under the bow) . 
In the eighth dream of the first series (1:8) it was said that 
one must not go (flying?) over the rainbow, but must go 
through underneath. Whoever goes over it falls down. It 
seems the flight had been too lofty, after all. The game of 
proquet is played on the ground and not in the air. Man 
should not raise himself with the aid of "mental” intuitions 
above the "earth” of solid reality and thus escape from it, 
as so often happens when he has brilliant intuitions. He 
never attains the level of his own longings, and should, 
therefore, not identify himself with them. Only gods pass 
over the rainbow bridge, while mortals walk upon the earth 
and are subject to its laws. 


It must be granted that man’s earthiness is a lamentable 
imperfection in view of the possibilities revealed to him by 
longing. But this very imperfection belongs to his innate 
being — to man’., reality. He consists not only of his highest 
longings, his loftiest ideas and efforts, but also of the invidious 
conditions of his being, such as heredity and that inefface- 
able sequence of memories that calls out to him, “This you 
have done, and this is what you are like!” Man has lost his 
ancient saurian’s tail, to be sure, but in its place a chain 
has been hung upon his soul that binds him to the earth — a 
positively Homeric chain of “conditions” that are so mo- 
mentous that it is best to remain linked to them at the risk 
of becoming neither a hero nor a saint. (In reality, history 
gives us a certain authorization not to lend absolute weight 
to these collective patterns.) Our earth-bound quality does 
not mean that we cannot grow; on the contrary, it is even 
the conditio sine qua non of growth. No lofty, well-grown 
tree ever disowned its dark roots. In fact, it grows not only 
upward, but downward as well. 

The question of where we are going is certainly of the 
greatest importance, but equally important, it seems to me, is 
the question: "Who goes where?” But this "Who?” always 
leads to the “Whither?” Greatness is needed for the lasting 
possession of the heights; but many a man can surpass him- 
self. It is difficult to hit upon the correct middle point, as is 
exemplified in dreams of this series. For this, awareness of the 
second side of man’s personality, of its aims and origin, is 
indispensable. These two aspects must never be separated out 
of arrogance or cowardice. 

The "mirror” as “indispensable instrument of naviga- 
tion” refers, no doubt, to the intellect , for it can think, and 
is always persuading man to identify himself with his dis- 
cernments (reflections). In Schopenhauer the "mirror” is 
a favourite metaphor for the intellect. The latter is aptly 
characterized by the expression “instrument of navigation,” 


for it is man’s indispensable guide on pathless oceans. But 
when he has lost the solid ground underfoot, and begins to 
speculate under the misguidance of an intuition roving in 
boundlessness, the situation becomes dangerous. 

12. (Dream) The dreamer finds himself with father, 
mother and sister in a very dangerous situation on a trolley- 
car platform. 

The fall thus takes him all the way down to childhood, 
a condition in which a human being is far from being in 
possession of his wholeness. The family stands for his whole- 
ness, its components being still projected on the members of 
the family and represented in them. But this is a dangerous 
condition for the adult, because it is regressive; it means a 
splitting up of his personality, which the primitive experi- 
ences as a threatening "loss of soul.” In the break-up, the 
parts of the personality, once integrated with effort, are 
again drawn outward. The individual loses his guilt in ex- 
change for an infantile innocence; and now the wicked 
father is guilty of this and the unloving mother of that. He 
is caught in this undeniable, causal connection like a fly in a 
spider’s web and does not notice that he has lost his moral 
freedom. In whatever respect the parents and grandparents 
have sinned against the child, this the adult accepts as a 
condition of his oivn being, with which he has to reckon. 

The fault of another, which can in no way be changed, 
interests only a blockhead. A man of intelligence learns only 
from his own faults. He will put the question to himself: 
"Who am I, that all this happens to me?” He will look 
deeply into himself to find the answer to this question of 

13. (Dream) A treasure lies in the sea. One must dive 
through a narrow opening. It is dangerous, but down below 



one will find a companion. The dreamer ventures the leap 
in the dark and finds down there a beautiful garden, sym- 
metrically laid out, with a fountain in the centre. 

In the sea of the unconscious lies hidden the thing of 
price that is hard to attain and is reached only by the man 
of courage. I will conjecture that the jewel is also the "com- 
panion,” one who goes through life by our side, a' close 
parallel to the self, which is first of all unfamiliar non-ego, 
and in which a "you” becomes associated with the lonely "I.” 
This is the theme of the miraculous fellow traveller. I will 
name three celebrated examples: the disciples on the road to 
Emmaus, the Bhagavad-Gita (Krishna and Arjuna) , and the 
eighteenth sura of the Koran (Moses and Chidher) . I will 
further conjecture that the treasure in the sea, the companion 
and the garden with the fountain are one and the same thing, 
namely, the self. For the garden is again the temenos, and 
the fountain is the source of "living water” that we know 
from the parable, and that the Moses of the Koran also 
sought and found with Chidher 21 beside it, "one of our 
servants whom we have clothed with our grace and wisdom.” 
And around Chidher, too, according to the legend, the desert 
ground blossoms with spring flowers. The image of the 
temenos with the wellspring developed in Islamic architec- 
ture, under early Christian influence, into the court of the 
mosque and the ritualistic washing place located in the centre 
( Achmed Ibn Tulun in Cairo) . We have the same thing in 
the Occidental cloister with the well in the garden. This is 
also the "rose garden of the philosophers,” of which we know 
from the alchemistic treatises and which was later pictured 
in numerous lovely engravings. "The Dweller in the House” 
(compare the commentary to dream io of this series) is the 
"companion.” The centre and the circle, here represented as 
fountain and garden, are analogues to the lapis , which is 
many things and even a living being. Hermes has it say: Pro- 


tege me, protegam te. Largire mihi ius meum, ut te adiuvem: 
"Protect me, and I will protect you. Give me my due, that I 
may help you.” Here, therefore, the lapis is nothing less than 
a good friend and aid who helps the one who helps him, and 
this points to a compensatory relationship. (I must here call 
to mind what was said in the commentary to dream 10 of 
this series, especially the analogy: Monogenes-/<*j>«-self.) 

The fall to earth thus leads into the depths of the sea, 
that is, of the unconscious, and so the dreamer attains the 
protection of the temenos against the splitting of the person- 
ality that accompanies the regression to childishness. The 
situation somewhat resembles 1:4 and j, where the spellbind- 
ing circle had to protect him against the attraction of the 
many-sided unconscious. (The dangers of temptation come 
to Polifilo in a quite similar way at the beginning of his 

The source of life is, like Chidher, a good companion, 
yet is not without equivocal elements, some painful examples 
of which good old Moses had to swallow. Indeed, this source 
is the symbol of the life force that always renews itself, of 
the clock that never runs down. An uncanonical word of 
the Master’s says: "Whoever is near unto me, is near unto 
the fire.” As this esoteric Christ is a source of fire — surely 
with a certain relation to the t dp aeitwov of Heraclitus — 
so also the aqua nostra, according to the conception of the 
alchemistic philosophers, is ignis — fire. The source is not only 
the flowing of life, but also its warmth, its heat even, the 
secret of passion, which always has synonyms related to fire. 
The aqua nostra, which dissolves everything, is an indis- 
pensable ingredient for the production of the lapis. But the 
source comes from below, and so the way leads through 
underneath. The fiery source of life is only to be found 
below. This "below” is the natural history of man, his causal 
connection with the world of instinct. Without this union 
no lapis and no self can come into being. 

142 the integration of the personality 

14. (Dr^am) He goes with his father into a chemist’s 
shop. Valuable things are to be had there at a low price, 
especially a particular kind of water. His father tells him 
of the land from which the water comes. Then, in a train, 
he crosses the Rubicon. 

The traditional "apothecary’s” with its glass receptacles 
and pots, its waters, its lapis divinus and infernalis, and its 
magisteries, preserves the last perceptible remnant of the 
slop kitchen of those alchemists who saw nothing in the 
donum spiritns sancti, the costly gift, but the chimera of 
the transmutation of gold. The "particular water” is literally 
— if we may say so — the aqua nostra, non vulgi. We can 
easily understand that it is his father who leads him to the 
source of life, since his father is the natural procreator of 
his life. We could say that the father represents the land or 
the ground from which the source of his life arose. The 
water of life can be had cheaply, for everyone possesses it — 
without knowing its value, to be sure. Spernitur a stultis; it 
is despised by the foolish because _ they suppose that every 
good thing is always outside and somewhere else, and the idea 
that the source is in their own psyches appears to them non- 
sense. Like the lapis, it is pretio quoque vilis , of little price, 
and therefore, as in Spitteler’s Prometheus, in viam ejectus 
by everyone from the high* priest and the academicians down 
to the very peasant — dashed upon the street, where Ahasu- 
erus stuffs the jewel into his pocket. The treasure has sunk 
again into the unconscious. 

But the dreamer has noticed something and with vigor- 
ous resolve crosses the Rubicon. He has understood that the 
flowing and the fire of. life must not be underestimated, but 
are indispensable to the realization of his completeness. 

15. (Dream) Four persons are sailing down a river: 
the dreamer* the father, a certain friend, and the unknown 



Inasmuch as the "friend” is a definite person intimately 
known to him, he belongs, like the father, to the dreamer’s 
conscious ego world. Thus something of great importance has 
taken place. In dream II: 1 1 the unconscious was three against 
one; now the proportions are reversed: the dreamer is three 
against one (the unknown woman). So the unconscious is 
depotentiated. The reason for this consists in the fact that, 
through the diving under, what is below has been linked to 
what is above. That is to say, the dreamer has resolved not 
to live merely as a bodiless thought-being, but to accept the 
body and the world of instinct, the reality of the problems 
of love and life , 22 and to translate them into act. That was 
the Rubicon, and it was crossed. For individuation, the 
realization of selfhood, is not just a mental problem, but the 
problem of life, itself. 

1 6. (Dream) Many people are there. All walk around 
within a square, moving to the left. The dreamer is not in 
the centre, but on one side. The idea is to reconstruct the 

* Here the square appears for the first time. It may well 
arise from the circle by means of the four persons arranged 
in a circle. (This will be substantiated later on.) The prob- 
lem of squaring the circle has occupied mediaeval minds like 
the lapis, the tinctura magna, and the aurum philosophicum. 
The Eastern mandala, particularly the lamaic as it is fixed in 
dogma, generally contains the square ground plan of a stupa. 
That this really signifies a building can be seen from the 
mandalas that are executed bodily. By the figure of the 
square, these convey the idea of a house or temple or of an 
inner, walled-in space, like the town and castle in the com- 
mentary to II: 10. 

According to ritual, stupas must always be circumam- 
bulated from the right, for left-handedness is evil. Left, the 

144 THE INTEGRATION of the personality 

Latin sinister , means the unconscious side. The movement 
to the left hand means a motion in the direction of the un- 
conscious, whereas movement to the right is "correct” and 
aims at consciousness. Since in the Orient these unconscious 
contents have gradually, through long practice, grown into 
conscious forms that express the unconscious, they must be 
taken over by consciousness and retained. 

In so far as we can judge of it as a firmly established 
practice, yoga — even in its most modern forms — proceeds 
essentially in the same way. It impresses upon consciousness 
established forms of an a priori nature. Its most significant 
Western parallel is the Exercitium of Ignatius Loyola, for in 
a similar way the latter impresses upon the conscious psyche 
certain fixed conceptions of salvation. This practice is thor- 
oughly "right” as long as the symbol gives valid expression 
to the unconscious situation. Eastern as well as Western yoga 
ceases to be psychologically right only when the unconscious 
process that anticipates future changes of consciousness has 
developed so far that it produces gradations that are no 
longer properly expressed by the traditional symbol, or' have 
ceased to be quite consonant with it. In such a case, and only 
then, can it be said that the symbol has forfeited its "right- 

This process surely amounts to a gradual shifting of the 
unconscious view of the world over the course of centuries, 
and has nothing whatever to do with intellectualistic criti- 
cism of this view. Religious symbols are manifestations of 
life, plain facts, and not intellectual opinions. The fact that 
water reaches its greatest density at 4 0 Cent' is an actuality 
beyond all criticism. If, for a certain period, the church 
holds fast to the belief that the sun rotates about the earth 
and then abandons this view in the nineteenth century, it 
can appeal to the psychological fact that for untold millions 
of people the sun did rotate about the earth, and that only 
in the nineteenth century had any considerable number of 


persons attained the assurance in the use of the intellectual 
function that enabled them to* grasp the evidence for the 
planetary nature of the earth. Unfortunately there are no 
truths without persons to understand them. 

The left-handed circumambulation of the square may 
point to the circumstance that the squaring of the circle is 
a stage on the way to the unconscious — that it is a yantra, a 
transitional point instrumental in the attainment of a goal 
lying behind it and as yet unformulated. It is one of the 
ways to the centre of the non-ego, and this way was taken by 
the natural research of the Middle Ages, in the production of 
the lapis. The Pbilosophus, one of the Latin sources of the 
Rosarium , says: Fac de masculo et fcemina circulum ro- 
tundum, et de eo extrahe quadrangulum et ex quadrangulo 
triangulum: fac circulum rotundum et habebis lapidem 
Philosophorum : “Out of male and female make a round 
circle, extract from it a quadrangle and from the quadrangle 
a triangle: make of this a round circle and you will have the 
Philosopher’s Stone.” 

For the modern intellect, of course, such things mean 
plain nonsense. But this valuation in no way cancels the 
fact that such chains of ideas do occur and have even played 
an important part for many centuries. It is the part of psy- 
chology to understand these things and to leave it to the 
layman to scold about nonsense and obscurantism. Many of 
my critics, who pretend to be “scientific,” behave exactly 
like the bishop who excommunicated the cockchafers because 
of their unseemly proliferation. 

As relics of the Buddha are often contained in the inner- 
most sanctuaries of the stupas, so, in the interior of the 
lamaic square and in the Chinese earth-square is found the 
hrly of holies or the magically potent, that is, the cosmic 
source of energy -the god Shiva, the Buddha, a Bodhisattva, 
or a great teacher. In Chinese religion it is Kien, Heaven 
with its four beams of cosmic force. In the Western, Chris- 


tian mandala of the Middle Ages, also, the Godhead is en- 
throned in the centre, often in the form of the triumphant 
Saviour with the four symbolic figures of the Evangelists. 
Now, the dream symbol presents the strongest contrast to 
these highly metaphysical conceptions, for in the centre the 
"gibbon,” unquestionably an ape, is to be reconstructed. We 
here meet again with the ape who first turned up in 1:22. 
He is there the occasion of a panic and of the helpful inter- 
vention of the intellect. He is now to be "reconstructed,” 
and this has no other meaning than that the anthropoid — 
man as an archaic fact — is to be reconstituted. The leftward 
way thus plainly does not lead up to the kingdom of the 
gods and of eternal ideas, but downward into natural history, 
into the animal instincts as the basis of human existence. We 
are confronted, therefore, with a Dionysiac mystery — to use 
the classic expression. 

The square corresponds to the temenos where a theat- 
rical performance is being given, in this case an ape-play 
instead of a satyr-play. The interior of the golden flower is 
a seeding place where the diamond body is produced. The 
synonym "land of the ancestors” perhaps even points to the 
fact that this creation arises from an integration of the 
ancestral stages. 

The ancestral spirits played an important role in the 
primitive rites of renewal. The natives of Central Australia 
even identify themselves with their mythical ancestors of the 
Alcheringan age, a kind of Homeric era. Likewise, in pre- 
paring themselves for the ritual dances, the Pueblo Indians of 
Taos identify themselves with the sun, whose sons they are. 
The regressive identification with the human and animal 
ancestors means psychologically an - integration of the un- 
conscious, actually a bath of renewal in the source of life 
where the individual becomes again a fish, that is, unconscious 
as in sleep, drunkenness, and death. Hence the sleep of incu- 
bation, the Dionysiac consecration and the ritualistic death 


in the initiation. Of course, these processes always take place 
at the hallowed spot. 

We can easily translate these conceptions into the in- 
fantile language of Freudian theory: the temenos is then the 
mother’s womb, and the rite is a regression to incest. But these 
are the neurotic misunderstandings of persons who have in 
part remained infantile and do not know that it is a question 
of things that have at all times been practised by adults, 
and that it is impossible to explain their activities as mere 
regression to childishness. If this were not so, the most signifi- 
cant and the highest achievements of humankind would in 
the end be nothing but perverted childhood wishes, and the 
word "childish” would have lost its raison d’etre. 

If it is taken seriously, the symbolism of the rites of 
renewal points beyond the affairs of childhood to the innate 
psychic disposition that is the result and deposit of the whole 
ancestral life reaching back to the animal level: hence ances- 
tral and animal symbolism. It is a question of attempts to 
annul the separation of consciousness from the unconscious, 
this being the actual source of life, and to bring about a 
reunion of the individual with the maternal soil of the in- 
herited, instinctive disposition. If such rites of renewal did 
not have a decided effect, they would have died out in pre- 
historic times; or rather, they would never have arisen in the 
first place. But the case before us shows that, even when 
consciousness is miles away from the ancient conceptions 
of the rite of renewal, the unconscious still tries to make 
them accessible to consciousness in dreams. The autonomy 
and autarchy of consciousness are, indeed, characteristics 
without which consciousness itself could never have arisen, 
but they also spell the danger of isolation and barrenness in 
that they produce, by splitting off the unconscious, an un- 
bearable remoteness from the instincts. And the loss of 
instinct is the well-known source of endless errors and con- 


The following dream is given unabridged, as in the 
original text. 

17. (Dream) All the houses have about them some- 
thing of the stage, of the theatre. Movable scenes and decora- 
tions. The name of Bernard Shaw stands out. The play is 
supposed to take place in the distant future. Over one of 
the wings is written in English and German: 

"This is the universal Catholic Church. It is the church of the Lord. 
Let all who feel themselves to be instruments of the Lord, enter.** 

Under this is printed in smaller letters: "The Church has 
been founded by Jesus and Paul” — as if to celebrate the age 
of a business firm. I say to my friend, "Come, let’s have a 
look at this.” He answers, "I don’t understand why a lot of 
people have to be together when they have religious feelings.” 
Then I answer, "As a Protestant you will never understand 
that.” A woman strongly agrees with me. Now I see a kind 
of proclamation on the wall of the church. It reads: 


If you feel that you stand in the power of the Lord, avoid addressing 
Him directly. The Lord cannot be reached by words. We further urgently 
recommend that you do not start any discussions among yourselves as to 
the attributes of the Lord. It is unfruitful, for what is valuable and im- 
portant cannot be said. 

Signed: Pope . . . (n^me unreadable)” 

Now we go in. The interior is like a mosque, particularly 
like the Hagia Sophia.No benches — imposing effect of space, 
no images. Framed texts as ornament on the wall (like texts 
from the Koran, in the Hagia Sophia ).One of the texts reads: 
"Do not flatter your benefactor.” The woman who agreed 
with me before bursts into tears and cries, "Then nothing 
is left.” I answer, "I find it quite all right,” but she disap- 
pears. First I stand in such a position that there is a pillar 
before me and I cannot see anything. Then I change my 


place and see a crowd of people before me. I do not belong 
with them and stand alone. But they are clearly presented to 
me and I see their faces. They all say in unison, “We confess 
to stand in the power of the Lord. The Kingdom of Heaven 
is within us.” This is spoken very solemnly, three times. 
Then the organ is played; a fugue from Bach with a chorale 
is sung. But the original text has been omitted. Sometimes 
only a kind of coloratura, then repeatedly the words, 
“Everything else is paper” (means: does not have a living 
effect upon me). When the chorale has faded away, there 
begins — in collegiate fashion, sc to say — the genial part of 
the meeting. Many jovial and solid people are there. We all 
go back and forth, speak together, greet one another, and 
wine ( from an episcopal seminary for priests ) and refresh- 
ments are handed around. We wish the church a happy in- 
crease and, as if to give expression to the joy at the aug- 
mentation of the society members, a loud-speaker plays a 
song hit with the refrain: “Charles is with us also now.” A 
priest explains to me: "These somewhat trivial pleasures are 
officially approved and permitted. We must adapt ourselves 
a little to the American methods. That is unavoidable with 
large-scale operation as we have it. But we distinguish our- 
selves fundamentally from the American churches by an 
outspoken anti-ascetic tendency.” Then I woke. Feeling of 
great relief. 

I must unfortunately refrain from commenting upon 
the dream as a whole, and will restrict myself to our theme. 
The temenos becomes a sacramental building, corresponding 
to the earlier intimation. The action is thus characterized as 
"devotional.” The grotesque-comical elements of the Dio- 
nysiac mystery appear in the "genial” part of the action, 
when wine is handed around and toasts are drunk to the 
well-being of the church. The floor-inscription of an 
Orphic-Dionysiac sanctuary expresses it perfectly: /jJtvov /u) 


only no water! 28 Here I will refer merely in passing 
to the Dionysiac relics in the church, the fish and wine sym- 
bolism, for example, the cup of Damascus, the cylindrical 
seal with the crucifix and the inscription OP$EOC BAKKI- 
KOC, and so forth. 

The “anti-ascetic” tendency clearly draws the distinc- 
tion from the Christian Church, which is here called "Amer- 
ican.” This same characterization occurred in dream 14 of 
the first series. America is the ideal home of reasonable ideas 
produced by the practical intellect, which would like to put 
a right countenance on the world by means of a "brain 
trust.” This conception corresponds to the modern formula, 
intellect-spirit, and completely forgets that "spirit” was 
never a human "activity,” much less a "function.” The left- 
handed motion thus proves to be a withdrawal from the 
world of modern ideas, and, for the time being, something 
like a regression to pre-Christian Dionysus worship to which 
"asceticism” in the Christian sense is foreign. The develop- 
ment is not thereby wholly removed from the hallowed 
place; it remains within it, which is to say that it does not 
lose its sacramental character. It does not simply become 
anarchic and chaotic, but rather brings the church into 
immediate relation with the sanctuary of Dionysus, as in- 
deed the historic process has done, though in the, reverse 
direction. It can, therefore, be said that the regressive de- 
velopment faithfully follows the historic way to reach the 
pre-Christian level. It is not a backsliding, but what we 
might call a systematic descent ad inferos , a psychological 

I have found something very similar in the dream of a 
clergyman who had a somewhat problematic attitude to his 
faith: "He comes at night into his church. There the whole 
wall of the choir has fallen together. The altar and the ruins 
are grown over with vines that are full of grapes, and 
through the opening that has been made shines the moon” 


Mithras has a connection with the early church similar 
to that of Dionysus. The dream of a person who was also 
occupied with religious problems goes as follows: "Immense 
Gothic cathedral, almost completely dark; High Mass is 
being celebrated. Suddenly the whole wall of the transept 
collapses. Blinding sunlight streams into the interior of the 
church, and with it a large herd of bulls and cows.” This 
version is clearly more Mithraic. 

In our dream, interestingly enough, the church is a 
syncretistic structure, for the Hagia Sophia is an ancient 
Christian church that served as a mosque until recently. The 
aim of the dream is well served when a combination of 
Christian and Dionysiac religious ideas is attempted in this 
edifice. The intention is clearly to bring this about in such 
a way that the one does not exclude the other, that no values 
are destroyed in the process. This is a very important tend- 
ency, for the reconstruction of the "gibbon” is to take place 
at this spot. Such a sacrilege would easily allow the dangerous 
surmise that the left-handed movement is a diabolica fraus 
and the gibbon the devil, for the devil is regarded as the 
"ape” of God. The leftwardness would then be a “distortion” 
of divine truth to the end of putting his Black Majesty in 
the place of God. But the unconscious has no such blas- 
phemous intentions; it is simply trying to restore to the 
world of religion the lost Dionysus who is somehow lacking 
to modern man — think of Nietzsche! The end of the 
twenty-second dream of the first series, where the ape first 
appears, runs: Everything must be ruled by the light” — 
and so also, we may add, must the Lord of Darkness with 
horns and goat’s feet, actually a Dionysiac corybant who 
has rather unexpectedly attained the honours of a grand duke. 

1 8. (Dream) A square space. Complicated ceremonies 
take place in it, having as their purpose the transformation 
of animals into men. Two serpents that hurry in opposite 


directions must be removed at once. Some animals are there, 
such as foxes and dogs. Again the dreamer goes around in 
the square, and in each of the four corners must allow him- 
self to be bitten in the calves by these animals. If he runs 
away, all is lost. Nobler animals now come into existence, 
bulls and wild goats. Four snakes go into the four corners. 
Then the assembly goes out. Two sacrificial priests carry a 
huge reptile. This is touched to the forehead of a still un- 
formed animal hulk, or life mass. There now arises from it a 
human head, whose aspect is resplendent. A voice calls, 
“Theje are attempts at being.” 

The dream goes on to occupy itself with what might 
almost be called the “explanation” of the happenings in the 
square enclosure. Animals are to be changed into men; a 
still unformed "life mass” is to be transformed into a “re- 
splendent” (illumined) human head through magical con- 
tact with a reptile. The bestial life mass, no doubt, stands 
for the totality of the inherited unconscious, which is to be 
joined to consciousness. This happens through the ceremonial 
use of a reptile, presumably a snake. The conception of 
transformation and renewal by means of a serpent is a well- 
substantiated archetype. It is the serpent of salvation repre- 
senting the god. It is told of the mysteries of Sabazios that: 
Coluber aureus in sinum demittitur consecratus et eximitur 
rursus ab inferioribus partibus atque intis: “A consecrated 
golden serpent was dropped into the bosom, and then re- 
moved from the inferior and lowest parts” — Arnobius. For 
the Ophites, Christ was the serpent. Surely the most signifi- 
cant development of the serpent symbolism in the sense of 
a renewal of the personality is to be. found in the Kundalini 
yoga. The shepherd’s experience with the snake in Nietzsche’s 
Z arathustra would accordingly be a fatal omen (and not the 
only one in his text: see the prophecy at the death of the 
rope dancer) . 


But for this transformation to come about there is an 
indispensable condition: the circumambulatio , that is, the 
exclusive concentration upon the centre , the place of crea- 
tive transformation. In the process we are "bitten” by the 
animals; we have to expose ourselves to the animal impulses 
of the unconscious without identifying ourselves with them 
and without running away, for the flight from the uncon- 
scious would defeat the purpose of the procedure. We must 
hold our ground. 

In the case before us, the process set going by self- 
observation must be experienced in all its sudden reversals 
and be joined to consciousness by understanding as best one 
can. Naturally this means an all but unbearable tension 
arising from the extraordinary incommensurability of con- 
scious life with the unconscious process. The latter can be 
experienced only in inner feeling, and may at no point touch 
the visible surface of life. The principle of conscious life is: 
nihil est in intellectu, quod non anted fuerit in sensu: "There 
is nothing in the mind that was not first in sensation.” But 
the principle of the unconscious is the autonomy of the 
psyche reflecting in its play of images not the world but 
itself, although it borrows from the world of sense the ma- 
terials of perception and uses them to make its images clear. 
In this activity, however, the sense datum is not a causa 
efficiens ; rather, it is autonomously, chosen and borrowed, 
with the result that the reasonableness of the cosmos is con- 
stantly impaired in the most painful way. Yet the world of 
sense has just as destructive an effect upon the inner, psychic 
processes when it breaks in upon them as a causa efficiens. 
If, on the one hand, reason is not to be offended and, on the 
other, the creative play of images is not to be suppressed in 
an abrupt and violent way, there is need of a synthetic pro- 
cedure that is foresighted and circumspect enough’ to accom- 
plish the paradox of uniting what cannot be united. Hence 
the alchemical parallels in the dreams before us. 

IJ4 THE integration of the personality 

Hardly .do consciousness and the unconscious touch 
each other, when their contradictory elements fly asunder. 
Thus at the very beginning of the dream the snakes that 
hurry in opposite directions must be removed: the conflict 
between conscious and unconscious is at once ended by de- 
termination, and consciousness is forced to perform the 
circumambulatio and to bear the tension. But the spellbind- 
ing circle whose course is thus followed also prevents the 
unconscious from breaking through into the outer world; 
such an eruption would equal a psychosis. We can say with 
the philosopher of the Rosarium: nonnulli perierunt in opere 
nostro : "not a few have perished in our undertaking.” The 
dream shows that the difficult operation — to think in para- 
doxes — has succeeded; and this is possible only for a superior 
intellect. The snakes no longer run away, but arrange them- 
selves in the four corners, and the process of change or 
integration succeeds. The transfiguration and illumination, 
the conscious recognition of the centre, has been attained, 
or at least anticipated by the dream. This achievement, if it 
is more than potential and can be maintained — that is, if 
consciousness does not again fall out of connection with it — 
means a renewal of the personality. Since this is a subjective 
state whose real existence cannot be demonstrated by any 
external' criterion, every further attempt at description and 
explanation is fruitless,, and only he who has had this experi- 
ence is in a position to grasp and to substantiate its actuality. 
For example, "happiness” is so strikingly real that there is 
no one who does not wish for it, and yet there is not one 
single objective criterion according to which this state can 
be shown to be unquestionably and necessarily present. The 
simple truth is that, in the most important things, we must 
often "sign off” with a subjective judgement. 

The arrangement pf the snakes in the four -corners points 
to a disposition of the unconscious. It is as if a pre-existent 
ground plan were given, a kind of Pythagorean reTpcwrfa. 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 15 j 

I have often observed the number four in this connection. 
It probably explains the world-wide dissemination and the 
magical significance of the cross and the circle divided into 
four parts. In the case before us it seems to be a matter of 
laying hold'upon and regulating the animal instincts, so that 
the danger of becoming unconscious is exorcized. This may 
perhaps be the empirical basis of the cross that conquers the 
powers of darkness. 

In this dream the unconscious has doubtless forged 
strongly ahead and has thrust its contents into dangerous 
proximity to consciousness. The dreamer seems to be deeply 
enmeshed in the secret, synthetic ceremony and will not fail 
to carry a significant remembrance of this dream into his 
conscious life. Experience shows that a strong conflict thus 
arises for consciousness, because it is not always inclined or 
in a position to make the unusual intellectual and moral 
effort needed to endure a paradox seriously. Nothing is so 
jealous as a truth. 

As a glance at the history of the mediaeval mind will 
show, our whole modern mentality has been preformed by 
Christianity. The truth of this fact has nothing to do with 
our current faith or lack of faith in the truths of Christian- 
ity. The reconstruction of the ape in the hallowed enclosure, 
proposed in the dream, is so disturbing that most people run 
away from it and protect themselves by failing to under- 
stand. Some will quite heedlessly pass by the abyss of the 
Dionysiac secret and seize upon the rational, Darwinistic 
element to save themselves from mystic exaltation. Only the 
very few will feel the collision of two worlds and understand 
what, at bottom, the question is. Yet the dream says plainly 
that the ape must arise in the place where, according to old 
tradition, the Godhead dwells. This exchange is almost as 
bad as a Black Mass. 

In Eastern symbolism the square space as earth (Chi- 
nese) and as padma (lotus, Indian) has the character of the 



yoni, feminality. A man’s unconscious is feminine and is 
personified by the anima. She also represents the inferior 
function , so called, and often has a morally dubious char- 
acter; she frequently stands for evil itself. As a rule, she is 
the fourth person — see the tenth, eleventh, and fifteenth 
dreams of this series. She is the dreaded, dark, maternal womb, 
which is of ambivalent nature. The Christian Godhead is 
One in Three Persons. The fourth person in the heavenly 
drama is unquestionably the devil. In the harmless, psycho- 
logical version he is the inferior function. According to 
moral valuation he is a man’s sin; therefore, a function 
belonging to him and hence masculine. The femininity in 
the Godhead is kept secret, and to say that the Holy Ghost 
is Sophia counts as a heresy.The metaphysical 1 Jrama of Chris- 
tianity, the "Prologue in Heaven” in Faust, has only mascu- 
line performers, a point which it shares with many early 
mystery rites. Femininity must surely be somewhere; so it is 
presumably to be found in the dark. At any rate, the old 
Chinese philosophy has placed it there, in the yin . 24 

Although man and woman unite, they nevertheless 
represent incompatible opposites that may degenerate into 
deadly enmity when they are activated. This primeval oppo- 
sition represents symbolically all conceivable oppositions that 
may occur, as warm-cold, light-dark, south-north, dry- wet, 
good-bad, etc. In the masculine psyche it also represents the 
opposition conscious-unconscious. According to the study 
of the functions in psychology, two of them, the differ- 
entiated function and its auxiliary function, are conscious 
and, therefore, masculine; in dreams they are pictured, for 
instance, as father and son; the unconscious functions, on 
the other hand, as mother and daughter. Since the contrast 
between the two auxiliary functions is nowhere nearly so 
great as between the differentiated and the inferior function, 
it is possible for the third function — that is, the unconscious 


“auxiliary” — to be raised to consciousness and thus become 
masculine. But it will bring with it something of its con- 
tamination with the inferior function, and so form a certain 
link with the darkness of the unconscious. It was quite in 
line with this psychological fact when the Holy Ghost was 
taken as Sophia according to the heretical interpretation, for 
the Holy Ghost was the mediator of the birth in the flesh, and 
thus made it possible for the luminous Godhead to become 
visible in the darkness of the world. It was this connection 
that aroused the suspicion that the Holy Ghost was feminine, 
for Mary was the dark earth of the field, ilia terra virgo 
nondum pltiviis rigata: “that virgin soil not yet watered by 
the rains,” as Augustine called her. 

The fourth function is contaminated with the uncon- 
scious and, when it is made conscious, draws the whole un- 
conscious in its train. Then we come to a settlement with 
the unconscious and must attempt to bring about a synthesis 
of the opposites. But first of all there breaks out the violent 
conflict that would beset any reasonable man when it became 
evident that he must swallow the most absurd superstitions. 
All his faculties would rise in arms, and he would desperately 
defend himself against what appeared to him to be murder- 
ous nonsense. The following dreams can be explained in the 
light of this situation. 

1 9. (Dream) Ferocious war between two peoples. 

This dream represents the conflict. Naturally, con- 
sciousness defends its position and tries to suppress the un- 
conscious. The first result of this is that the fourth function 
is forced out; but as it is contaminated with the third, this 
also threatens to disappear. Matters would thus return to the 
state that preceded the present one, a state in which only 
two functions are conscious, while the other two fall back 
into the unconscious. 


20. (Dream) In a cave are two boys. A third falls in, 
as if through a pipe. 

The cave represents the darkness and seclusion of the 
unconscious. The two boys correspond to the two functions 
located in the unconscious. In theory, the third would be the 
auxiliary function, which would point to the fact that con- 
sciousness has withdrawn completely into the differentiated 
function. The match now stands at 1 to 3, and this gives the 
unconscious a great preponderance. We may, therefore, ex- 
pect a new advance of the unconscious and a return to its 
former position. The "boys” point to the theme of the 
dwarfs. Of this, more later. 

21. (Dream) A large transparent ball that contains 
many small balls. A green plant grows out of the top. 

The ball is a whole that embraces all contents; life that 
has been brought to a stop by useless struggle is thus made 
possible again. In the Kundalini yoga the "green womb” is a 
designation for Ishvara (Shiva) emerging from his latent 

22. (Dream) In an American hotel. He rides in the 
elevator to about the third or fourth floor. There he has to 
wait with many others. A friend (a definite person) is there 
and says he (the dreamer) should not have kept the dark, 
unknown woman below waiting so long, he should have put 
her in his charge. He now gives him an unsealed note directed 
to the dark woman. On it is written: “Salvation does not 
come from not going along or from running away. Nor does 
it come from letting oneself be carried along without will- 
ing. Salvation comes from complete self -surrender, and one’s 
gaze must be directed upon a centre.” On the margin of the 
note was a drawing: a wheel or wreath with eight spokes. 


Now an elevator boy comes and says that his (the dreamer’s) 
room is on the eighth floor. He rides in the elevator to about 
the seventh or eighth floor. There stands an unknown, red- 
haired man who greets him in a friendly way. Now a change 
of scenery takes place. Apparently there is a revolution in 
Switzerland. A military party is carrying out propaganda 
for "completely throttling left.” To the objection that left 
is feeble anyhow, the answer is made that this is just why 
left is to be wholly throttled. Now soldiers appear in old- 
fashioned uniforms and they all resemble the red-haired man. 
They load their guns with ramrods, stand in a circle, and 
prepare to shoot at the centre. But they do not shoot, after 
all, and seem to march away. He awakes in great fear. 

While in the previous dream there was indicated a 
tendency towards the restoration of completeness, in this 
dream an obstacle is again presented by consciousness, in 
that it is directed elsewhere. The dream fittingly plays 
against an American background. The elevator goes upward, 
and this is proper if anything from the "sub”-conscious is 
to come "up” into consciousness. It is the unconscious con- 
tent that here comes up, the mandala characterized by the 
number 4. That is why the elevator should run to the fourth 
floor. But since the fourth function is taboo, it runs only 
approximately to the third or fourth. This happens not only 
to the dreamer, but to many others besides, and they must 
wait, like him, until the fourth function can be accepted. A 
good friend- calls his attention to the fact that he should not 
have caused the dark woman — the anima who represents the 
taboo function — to wait "below,” that is, in the unconscious. 
It was just for this reason that he had to wait above with 
the others. In fact, it is not merely an individual, but a 
collective problem, for the animation of the unconscious 
that has become noticeable in recent times, as Friedrich 
Schiller foresaw, has given rise to questions that the nine- 


teenth century did not dare to dream of. In 2 arathustra, 
Nietzsche decided to reject the snake and the "ugliest man” 
and thus to expose himself to a heroic constraint of con- 
sciousness that led consistently to the collapse foretold in the 
selfsame book. 

The advice on the note is as profound as it is apt, and 
there is positively nothing to add to it. After the advice has 
been given and somehow accepted by the dreamer, the jour- 
ney upward can continue. We must assume that the problem 
of the fourth function has been accepted, at least in general, 
for the dreamer now comes to the seventh or eighth floor, so 
that the fourth function is represented no longer by a quar- 
ter, but by an eighth, and seems thus reduced by half. 

Curiously enough, this hesitation before the last step to 
completeness seems also to play a part in the second part of 
Faust. It is a question of the scene of the Cabiri: "resplendent 
sea women” come across the water. Nereids and tritons sing: 

What we bring in our hands 
Shall give you all joy. 

From the giant shield of Chelone 
Shines an austere figure: 

They are gods whom we bring; 

You must now sing lofty songs. 

Sirens: Small in stature, 

Great in power, 

The saviours of the shipwrecked, 

Gods honoured from of old. 

We bring the Cabiri, 

To celebrate a peaceful feast; 

For where they hold hallowed sway 
Neptune’s rule will be friendly. 

An "austere figure” is brought by "sea women,” that is, 
by feminine figures that represent to a certain degree the 
unconscious as ocean and ocean wave. The “austere” reminds 




dream symbols of the process of individuation 161 

us of “severe” architectonic or geometrical forms that pre- 
sent a definite idea without Romantic (feeling-toned) 
accessories. It "shines” from the shell of a tortoise, which is 
a primitive, cold-blooded animal like the serpent, and sym- 
bolizes the primeval instincts of the unconscious. The "fig- 
ure” is somehow identical with the unseen, creative dwarf 
gods, the hidden ones that are kept in the dark cista, but 
who also appear as little figures about a foot high and stand 
upon the sea, where, as relatives of the unconscious, they 
protect navigation, the venture in darkness and uncertainty. 
For this reason, as Dactyls, they are also gods of invention, 
small and insignificant, it is true — like the stirrings of the 
unconscious — but also as mighty as it. El gabir is the great, 
mighty one (Arabian akbar for kabira = great) . 


Three we have brought with us, 


The fourth would not come. 


He said, he was the right one, 
Who thought for all of them. 


One god makes the other 

An object of derision. 

Honour all gifts of grace, 

Fear every harm. 

It is significant of Goethe’s sentient nature that the 
fourth is just the thinker. If "feeling is all” must count as a 
first principle, then thinking must content itself with an 
unfavourable role and be submerged and disappear. Faust, 
Part I, portrays this development. No doubt, Goethe himself 
stood model for it. In this case thinking becomes the fourth 
(taboo) function. Through contamination with the uncon- 
scious it takes on the grotesque form of the Cabir, for the 
Cabiri, being dwarfs, are chthonic gods and generally de- 
formed. ("I look upon the misshapen shapes as ware that’s 
badly earthen.”) Thus they stand in grotesque contrast to 
the heavenly gods and hold them in derision. 



Nereids and 


Nereids and 

There are seven of them in truth. 

Where have the three remained? 

We know not how to say, 

Must be sought for in Olympus; 
There lives the eighth as well 
Whom no one thought of yet. 
Inclined to favour us, 

And yet none ready. 

These incomparable ones 
Press always on, 

Yearning hungerers 
For a thc unattainable. 

We learn that there are "in truth” seven or eight of 
them, but there is again a difficulty with the eighth, as earlier 
with the fourth. Contradicting the earlier emphasis placed 
on their origin from the lower, dark regions, it now appears 
that the Cabiri are actually to be found in Olympus; since 
they are eternally striving upward from below, they are 
probably always to be met with both below and above. The 
"austere figure” is clearly an unconscious content that always 
presses towards the light. It seeks, and is itself, what I have 
designated in The Psychology of the Unconscious as the 
"precious object hard to attain.” This assumption is at once 
borne out: 

The heroes of eld 
Are in want of fame, 

However resplendent 

When they attained the Golden Fleece, 

You, the Cabiri. 

The "Golden Fleece” is the longed-for goal of the 
Argonauts’ voyage, the adventurous quest that is one of the 
numerous synonyms for the attaining of the unattainable. 
Thales has this wise remark to make about it: "This is 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 163 

what men long for: It is the rust that gives value to the 

Indeed, the unconscious is always the hair in the soup, 
the anxiously concealed lack of perfection, the painful lie 
given to all idealistic pronouncements, the remnant of earth 
that clings to human nature and sadly clouds the crystal 
clarity that it longs for. According to the alchemistic con- 
ception, rust and verdigris are the sickness of metal. And yet 
this very scurf is the vera prima materia, the basis for the 
preparation of the philosophical gold. The Rosarium Philoso- 
phorum says: Aurum nostrum non est aurum vulgi. Qucesi- 
visti autem de viriditate, putans quod ces esset corpus 
leprosum propter illam viriditatem quam illud, quod est 
perfectum in cere, est ilia sola viriditas, quce in ipso est, quia 
ilia viriditas vertitur per nostrum magisterium cito in veris- 
simum aurum nostrum : "Our gold is not the gold of the 
multitude. But you have asked concerning the verdigris, 
deeming the metal a leprous body on account of this green- 
ness, rather than holding what is perfected in the metal to be 
the sole vitality that is in it, because this verdigris is quickly 
changed by our magistery into our truest gold.” 

The viriditas is sometimes called "azoth” as well, and 
this, among other things, is one of the* numerous synonyms 
for the lapis. 

The paradoxical remark of Thales, that only the rust 
gives its true value to the coin, is a kind of alchemistic para- 
phrase, and simply means that there is no light without 
shadow and no psychic completeness without imperfection. 
To round itself out, life calls, not for perfection, but for 
completeness. For this "the barb in the flesh” is needed, the 
suffering of imperfection without which there is no forward 
or upward. 

Returning now to our dream, we find at the critical 
place, on the seventh or eighth floor, the man with the red 
hair. This is a synonym for "the man with the pointed 


beard,” the clever Mephisto who magically transforms the 
scene because he is concerned about what Faust never saw, 
the "austere figure,” which means the highest jewel, the 
"incorruptible.” He changes himself into the soldiers, the 
representatives of uniformity, of collective opinion, which 
last is, of course, entirely against putting up with inex- 
pedient things. It follows the highest authority in holding 
3 and 7 as sacred; but 4 and 8 are evil, "ware that’s badly 
earthen,” "nothing but” inferiority that has no standing in 
the severe judgement of the bonzes of every hue. "Left” is 
to be "wholly throttled”; this means the unconscious side 
and everything suspicious that comes from the left, from 
the unconscious. This opinion is, of course, old-fashioned 
and resorts to old-fashioned means, but muzzle-loaders can 
still hit the mark. For reasons unknown, or not given in the 
dream, nothing comes of this destructive attempt against 
the "centre” upon which (as the advice ran) "one’s gaze 
must be directed.” In the drawing on the margin of the note 
this centre is portrayed as a wheel with eight spokes. 

23. (Dream) In the square space. Opposite the 
dreamer sits the unknown woman, and he should be drawing 
her portrait. Yet what he draws is not a face, but three- 
leaved clovers or distorted crosses in four different colours: 
red, yellow, green, and blue. 

In connection with this dream the dreamer spon- 
taneously draws a circle whose quadrants are tinted with 
the above colours: a wheel with eight spokes, containing a 
blue flower with four petals in the centre. He produced 
numerous other drawings at short intervals, all of them 
dealing with the curicfus structure of the “centre” and aris- 
ing from the need to discover the configuration that would 
give adequate expression to the nature of the "centre.” Some 


of the drawings are based upon visual impressions, some upon 
sentient intuition, and some upon dreams. 

The facts show that the conception of the "centre,” 
which the unconscious again and again brought near to 
consciousness, now begins to gain a foothold in the latter 
and to exercise a peculiar fascination upon it. The next 
drawing is again the blue flower, but this time divided into 
eight; then follow pictures of four mountains around a 
crater lake. Also one showing a red circle on the ground, a 
barren tree standing within it, and on the tree a green snake 
twining itself upward with a leftward motion. 

A serious concern with this problem is probably some- 
what puzzling to the layman. Some knowledge of yoga and 
of the medixval philosophy of the lapis would assist him in 
understanding. The squaring of the circle, as was mentioned 
in that connection, is one of the methods for producing the 
lapis; another is the use of the imaginatio, as the following 
text from the Rosarium clearly proves: Et not a, quod ianua 
tua bene et fir mi ter sit clausa , ut ille, qui est intus, evolare 
non possit, et Deo concedente, ita pervenies ad effectum. 
Nat lira facit suam operationem paulative: ego vero volo 
quod tu ita facias, imo secundum naturam tua sit imaginatio. 
Et vide secundum naturam, de qua regenerantur corpora in 
visceribus terrce. Et hoc imaginare per veram imaginationem 
et non phantasticam : "And see to it that your door is well 
and firmly closed, so that what is within may not fly away, 
so with God’s help you will attain the result. Nature per- 
forms her operations by slow degrees; in truth, I would have 
you do the same: let your imagination be wholly according 
to nature. And observe according to nature, by which bodies 
are regenerated in the bowels of the earth. And you must 
imagine this with a true, and not a fantastic, imagination.” 

The alchemistic precautionary rule, which occurs so 
frequently, the enjoining of the vas bene clausum, is equiva- 
lent to the spellbinding circle. In both cases the inner is to be 


protected from the intrusion and admixture of the outer, as 
it is also to be prevented from escaping. The imaginatio is 
here taken as a real and literal poiver of making images 
according to the classic use of the word, and is contrasted 
to "fantasy,” which designates a mere "conceit” in the sense 
of unsubstantial thought. In Petronius the meaning is more 
pointed still: phantasia non homo denotes facetiousness. The 
imaginatio is an active evocation of (inner) images secun- 
dum naturam, an actual achievement of thought or concep- 
tion. It does not "spin fantasies” out into empty space with- 
out plan and without support, which is to say that it does 
not play with its objects. Rather, it tries to grasp the inner 
truth of images faithfully copied from nature. This activity 
is called an opus, a work. And we must surely say that the 
dreamer’s manner of handling these objects of inner experi- 
ence is nothing less than a true work, considering the con- 
scientious, exact and careful notation and expansion of the 
content accruing to consciousness from the unconscious. 
The resemblance to the opus is surely obvious to anyone 
familiar with alchemy. Moreover, the dreams bear out the 
analogy, as dream 24 will show. 

The dream before us, from which the drawings just 
mentioned arose, gives not a hint that the left side has been 
in any way "throttled.” On the contrary, the dreamer finds 
himself again in the temenos confronted by the unknown 
woman who personifies the fourth function, called "in- 
ferior.” His drawing has been anticipated by the dream, and 
the dreamer repeats in the form of an abstract ideogram 
what the dream presents under a personification. This may 
well afford us a hint that the meaning of personification is a 
symbol for something that’ can also be represented in quite 
another form. This "other form” reaches back to dream 1 6 
in the first series, the ace of clubs, whose analogy with the 
cross of unequal arms was there pointed out. The analogy is 
here verified. I tried to sum up the situation then existing in 


the formula: Christian Trinity modulated, coloured or over- 
shadowed by the. four (colours). Now the colours appear as 
a concretion of the rerpa/crfo. In a citation from the Trac- 
tatus Aureus, the Rosarium makes a similar statement: 
Vultur 25 . . . clamat voce magna, inquiens : "Ego sum 
albus niger et rubeus citrinus” : "The vulture . . . cries in 
a loud voice, saying: 'I am the white that is black and the 
red that is yellow.’ ” 

As to the lapis, it is pointed out that it unites in itself 
omnes colores. We might, indeed, surmise that the fourfold- 
ness represented here by the colours is to a certain extent a 
preliminary stage. This is substantiated by the Rosarium: 
lapis noster est ex quatuor elementis; also the Aurum 
Philoso phicum : in auro sunt quatuor elementa in cequali 
proportione aptata. The fact is that the four colours in the 
dream also represent the transition from threefoldness to 
fourfoldness and thus to the quadripartite circle, which 
most closely accords with the nature of the lapis according 
to the alchemistic conception, because of its roundness (per- 
fect simplicity) . This is why a recipe for the preparation of 
the lapis, ascribed to Raymundus, says: Recipe de simpli- 
cissimo et de rotundo cor pore, et noli recipere de triangulo 
vel quadrangulo sed de rotundo : quia rotundum est pro- 
pinquius simplicitati quam triangulus. Notandum est ergo, 
quod corpus simplex nullum habens angulum, quia ipsum est 
primum et posterius in planetis, sicut sol in stellis ( Ros- 
arium ) : "Take of a body that is most simple and round, and 
do not take of a triangular or quadrangular body, but of a 
round one: because the round is nearer to simplicity than 
the triangular. For it is to be noted that a simple body has 
no angle, because it is the first and last among the planets, 
like the sun among the stars.” 

24. (Dream) Two persons are speaking about crystals, 
especially about a diamond. 


At this point it is difficult not to think of the idea of 
the lapis. This dream actually exposes the historic under- 
currents and intimates that we are really dealing here with 
the question of the sought-for lapis, the "precious thing 
hard to attain.” The dreamer’s opus amounts to an uncon- 
scious repetition of the endeavours of the mediaeval lapis 
philosophy. (For further remarks concerning the "diamond” 
see dreams 37, 39, 44, and jo in this series.) 

25. (Dream) It is a question of constructing a centre 
and of making the figure symmetrical by reflections at this 

The word "constructing” points to the synthetic nature 
of the opus and to the laboriousness — if we may use the 
term — of the building process that taxes the dreamer’s 
energy. The "making symmetrical” is an answer to the con- 
flict in dream 22 of this series. ("Wholly throttle the left.”) 
The one side must fully correspond to the other as a mirror 
image, and this image arises in the "centre,” which thus 
appears to have the property of reflection; it is a vitrum, a 
crystal or a surface of water. The act of reflecting seems 
again to point to the underlying conception of the lapis, 
the aurum philosophicum, the elixir, the aqua nostra, etc. 

Since "right” denotes consciousness, its world and prin- 
ciples, so the "reflection” undertakes to turn the picture of 
the world around to the left, so that a correspondence in the 
reversed sense arises. We could also say: after reflection, 
right appears as a reversal of left. Thus left appears to have 
the same validity as right; the unconscious and its arrange- 
ment, which for the most part is beyond our understanding, 
symmetrically completes consciousness and its contents, al- 
though it is not clear what mirrors itself ana what is mirror 
image. To carry out this train of inference, it is possible to 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 169 

regard the "centre” as the point of intersection of two 
worlds that correspond but are reversed in the mirror. 

The idea of symmetrization would thus signify a high 
point in the recognition of the unconscious and its incor- 
poration in a general picture of the world. The unconscious 
here attains cosmic character. 

26. (Dream) Nighttime, starry sky. A voice says, 
"Now it will begin.” The dreamer asks, "What will begin?” 
To which the voice answers, "The circular course can be- 
gin.” A shooting star now falls in a curious leftward curve. 
The scene changes: the dreamer is in a questionable place of 
amusement. The keeper of the house, who appears to be an 
unscrupulous exploiter, and girls in fallen circumstances are 
there. There is a quarrel about right and left. Then the 
dreamer leaves and drives in a taxicab around the perimeter 
of a square. Then again the bar. The keeper of the house 
says, "What the people said about right and left did not 
satisfy my feelings. Is there really a right and left part of 
human society?” The dreamer answers, “The existence of 
the left does not contradict that of the right. Both are in 
every man. Left is the mirror image of right. Always, when 
I feel it as a mirror image, I am at one with myself. There is 
no right and no left part of human society, but there are 
symmetrical and crooked persons. The crooked ones are those 
who can realize only the one side in themselves, the left or 
the right. They are still in a childhood state.” The keeper of 
the house says meditatively, “Now that’s much better,” and 
goes again about his business. 

I have given this dream in detail because it shows in an 
excellent way how the ideas hinted at in dream 25 were 
received by the dreamer. The conception of the symmetrical 
relation is stripped of its cosmic traits and is translated into 


psychology with the help of social symbols. "Right” and 
"left” have been used almost as political catchwords. 

The cosmic aspect is present at the beginning of the 
dream. The dreamer noticed that the curious curve de- 
scribed by the shooting star exactly corresponded to a line 
that he drew when he sketched the picture of the flower 
divided into eight parts, as described in connection with the 
twenty-third dream. The curve forms the edge of the flower 
petals. We might, therefore, say that the shooting star traces 
the outline of a flower that is spread over the whole starry 
heaven. It is the circulation of the light that begins here. 
This cosmic flower corresponds to the rose in Dante’s Para- 

In that it pictures an "inner” experience that can be 
understood only as a psychic event, the cosmic nature of the 
flower is objectionable and at once provokes a reaction from 
"what is down below.” The cosmic aspect is obviously too 
"high,” and is compensated "downward,” so that the sym- 
metry is no longer that of two pictures of the world, but 
only of human society or of the dreamer himself. When the 
keeper of the house comments upon this psychological in- 
sight, "Now that’s much better,” he is expressing a recog- 
nition whose conclusion should run, "But not yet good 

The quarrel about right and left that first arises in the 
public house is a conflict that breaks out in the dreamer him- 
self when he is called upon to recognize the symmetry. He 
cannot do it, for the reason that the other side seems so 
dubious that he would rather not inspect its mirror image 
too closely. The magical circumambulation (the driving 
around the square) takes place in order that he should re- 
main within and not run away, but rather learn to bear his 
mirror image. He does this as best he can, yet not in the way 
the other side wishes. Therefore, the rather cool recognition 
of his .deserts. 


27. (Visual impression) A circle; in the middle a 
green tree. In the circle a raging fight among savages is 
taking place. They do not see the tree. 

The conflict between right and left has obviously not 
ended. It goes on because the savages are still in a "childhood 
state” and, being "crooked,” know only either right or left. 

28. (Visual impression) A circle: within it steps lead 
up to a basin in which are fountains. 

When a condition is not satisfactory, in that an essential 
aspect of the unconscious content is. lacking to it, then the 
unconscious process reaches back to earlier symbols, as is 
here the case. The symbolism returns to dream 13 of this 
series, where we met with the mandala-garden of the philos- 
ophers with the fountain of the aqua nostra. Circle and 
basin emphasize the mandala, which in medixval symbolism 
is the rose. The "Rose Garden of the Philosophers” is a 
favourite alchemistic symbol. 


29. (Visual impression) A bouquet of roses, then the 

but it should be 

The bouquet of roses is like a fountain that spreads as 
it rises. The meaning of the first sign — possibly a tree — is 
unclear, whereas the correction presents the flower divided 
into eight parts. An emendation is here made to an error 
that in some way impairs the completeness of the rosa. And 
in order that it may be restored, the problem of the mandala 
— the correct valuation and interpretation of the centre — 
must again draw close to consciousness. 

30. (Dream) He sits at a round table with the dark, 
unknown woman. 



When a process has reached a culmination as regards 
either its clarity or the wealth of inferences that can be 
drawn from it, a regression is always likely to follow. The 
dreams that lie between those that I have cited clearly show 
that the challenge of completeness flung at the dreamer 
frightens him somewhat, for if he takes it up there will 
follow far-reaching practical results whose personal nature 
lies outside the scope of our study. 

The roundness of the table points again to the circle of 
completeness, and the anima belongs to it as the representa- 
tive of the fourth function, especially in her “dark” form, 
which always makes itself noticeable when something should 
be concretized — that is, when something should be trans- 
lated, or threatens to translate itself, into reality. “Dark” is 
chthonian, that is, earthy and actual. This is also the source 
of the fear that causes the regression. 

31. (Dream) He sits with a certain man, whose char- 
acteristics are repellent, at a round table. On it stands a glass 
filled with a gelatinous mass. 

As against the preceding one, this dream denotes a step 
forward inasmuch as the “dark” element is accepted as his 
own "darkness,” thus giving rise to a proper shadow that 
personally belongs to the dreamer. 

Although I may not enter here upon a full discussion of 
the psychology of dreams, a few clarifying remarks are 
called for. The sitting together at one table means relation- 
ship, connection, "composition.” The round table here means 
the composition of wholeness. If the anima figure (the per- 
sonified unconscious) is separated from the ego-conscious- 
ness, and therefore unconscious, this fact means that there 
exists an isolating layer of the personal unconscious located 
between the ego and the anima. 

The existence of a personal unconscious shows that 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 173 

contents belonging to the person, which actually could be 
conscious, are unjustifiably unconscious. Therefore, we have 
a deficient or non-existent consciousness of the shadow. The 
shadow, as we saw in earlier chapters, corresponds to a nega- 
tive ego-personality; it embraces all those characteristics 
whose existence is found to be painful or regrettable. In this 
case shadow and anima, being unconscious, are contaminated 
with each other, a state that is represented in dreams as 
“marriage” or the like. If now the existence of the anima 
(or of the shadow) is accepted and understood, a separation 
of the two figures results, as has happened in the case before 
us. The shadow is recognized as an ego-adjunct, and the 
anima as not belonging to the ego. 

In this way the anima is relieved of the low moral values 
that were projected on her, and can take up the creative and 
living function that is properly her own. This is well repre- 
sented by the glass with the curious contents, which we — 
and the dreamer also — compare with the undifferentiated 
“life mass” of dream 18. There is a question of the gradual 
transformation of primitive, animal elements into human 
attributes. We may expect something similar here as well, 
for it seems as if the spiral of inner development had come 
around to the same angular degree, though on a higher level. 

The glass corresponds to the unum vas of alchemy, and 
its content to the living, half-organic mixture from which 
the body of the lapis, endowed with spirit and life, will 
emerge. Other parallels are the memorable figure in Goethe’s 
Faust, Part II, that three times over dissolves into fire: the 
Boy Charioteer, the Homunculus that is shattered against 
the throne of Galatea, and Euphorion. (Dissolution of the 
"centre” in the unconscious.) It is well known that the 
lapis is not only a “stone,” for it is expressly stated in the 
Rosarium that it is put together de re animali, vegetabili et 
miner alt, that it is com posit us ... ex cor pore, anima et 
spiritu, and crescit ex came et sanguine. Ideo dicit Philoso- 

174 THE INTEGRATION of the personality 

phus, portavit eum ventus in ventre suo. Planum est ergo 
ventus est aer et aer est vita et vita est anima. Lapis est 
res media inter perfecta et imperfecta corpora et quod na- 
tura ipsa incoepit, hoc per artem ad perfectionem ducitur. 
" 'Therefore/ says the Philosopher, 'the wind carried it in 
its belly. And it therefore is plain that the wind is air and 
air is life and life is soul*. The lapis is an intermediary be- 
tween perfected and imperfected bodies, and what nature 
herself begins, this is carried to perfection by art.” And in 
addition dicitur lapis invisibilitatis. 

The dream certainly deals with the question of bringing 
the "centre” to life, reality, or — as we might say — to birth. 

32. (Dream) He receives a letter from the unknown 
woman. She writes that she has pains in her womb. A draw- 
ing is attached to the letter that looks somewhat like this: 

0 s Womb 

\ Primeval 
\ forest / 
\ / 

In the primeval forest are many monkeys. Then an outlook 
opens upon extensive glaciers. 

The womb is the centre, the life-giving vessel. The 
Rosarium says: Unus est lapis , una medicina , unum vas. 
As the Grail is the life-giving vessel itself, so the stone is 
the elixir vitce.™ The drawing contains the spiral with the 
vessel as its centre. The serpentine line clearly leads to the 
vessel, and we thus have an analogy to the serpent of healing 
of Aisculapius ( medicina ) , as also to the Tantric symbol of 
the Shiva bindu, the creative, latent god unextended in space, 
who, in the form of the point or of the linga, has the Kunda- 
lini snake coiled around him three and a half times. 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 17 j 

Moreover, as I could easily show, this is a relatively com- 
mon individual symbol. As the ape and the primeval forest 
appeared in second series’ dream 16 and first series’ dream 
22, and led up to “the light that should rule everything” in 
dream 23 of the first series, and to the "glorified” head in 
dream 1 8 of the second series, so at the end of this dream an 
outlook is opened upon white “glaciers” that remind the 
dreamer of a previous dream — not included in this chapter 
— in which he sees the Milky Way, and in which a conversa- 
tion about immortality takes place. The glacier symbol is, 
therefore, the bridge that again leads across to the cosmic 
aspect — to the aspect that was the occasion for the regres- 
sion. But as is nearly always the case, things do not here 
repeat themselves in so simple a fashion as it would seem at 
first glance; rather, they bring with them a new complica- 
tion that is no less repugnant to the intellectual conscious- 
ness than was the cosmic aspect, though it was to be expected 
on grounds of consistency. This complication is the memory 
of the conversation concerning immortality. The pendulum 
clock, which is a perpetuum mobile, already hinted at this 
theme in dream 9 of this series. Immortality is a clock that 
never runs down, a mandala that revolves eternally like the 
heavens. Thus the cosmic aspect returns with compound 
interest. That might easily prove too much for the dreamer, 
as a scientific stomach has limited digestive powers. 

Indeed, the unconscious puts forth a confusing abund- 
ance of designations for that obscure thing that we call a 
mandala or the “self.” It seems almost as if we were about to 
go on dreaming the century-old dream of alchemy, like the 
unconscious itself, and to continue piling new synonyms on 
the mountain of the old, only to know as much or as little 
about it in the end as did the ancients. I will not enlarge 
upon the significance of the lapis to our forefathers, or of 
the mandala to the Lamaists and Tantrists, the Aztecs and 
Pueblo Indians, or yet of the "golden pill” to the Taoists, or 


of the "golden seed” to the men of India. We know the texts 
that give us a living picture of all this. But what does it mean 
when the unconscious of a cultured European stubbornly 
persists in putting forth such abstruse symbolism? The 
psychological viewpoint is the only one I am able to apply in 
this case. (There may be others that I do not. sufficiently 
understand.) From this standpoint, everything that can be 
brought together under the general concept of the "man- 
dala” seems to me to express the essence of a definite atti- 

The known attitudes of consciousness have describable 
aims and purposes. The attitude that consists of a centring 
of the attention upon the self is the only one that has no 
specifiable aim and no conceivable purpose. It is easy to say 
self, but what is meant by it remains clouded in metaphysi- 
cal darkness. To be sure, I have previously defined the self as 
the totality of the conscious and unconscious psyche. But 
this whole is boundless, a true lapis invisibilitatis. For, in so 
far as the unconscious exists, it is not describable; existen- 
tially it is a mere postulate, and nothing whatever can be 
predicated as to its possible contents (except those of the 
conscious sort). Wholeness is only experienced in its parts 
and in so far as these are contents of consciousness; as whole- 
ness it necessarily transcends consciousness. The "self,” conse- 
quently, is a purely delimiting concept, somewhat like Kant’s 
"thing-in-itself.” Yet it is an idea that, in empirical ways, is 
constantly elucidating itself, as our dreams show — without 
losing anything of its transcendence, however. 

Since it is impossible for us to have any information as 
to the limits of something that escapes our knowledge, we 
are not in a position to set any limits to the self. It would be 
arbitrary and, therefore, unscientific to restrict the self to 
the bounds of the individual psyche, quite apart from the 
essential fact that we are not acquainted with these bounds, 
since these also lie in the unconscious. We can, of course, in- 


dicate the boundaries of consciousness; but the unconscious 
is simply the unknown pysche, and is boundless because it is 

This being the state of affairs, we should not be in any 
way surprised if the empirical manifestations of unconscious 
contents bear the traits of boundlessness and undetermin- 
ability in space and time. In all times and places this is the 
quality of the numen and is, therefore, alarming to a careful 
consciousness that knows the value of precisely delimited 
concepts. We are glad that we are neither philosophers nor 
theologians and do not have to confront such numina within 
our own academic field. But it is all the worse when it be- 
comes increasingly clear that numina are, psychic entities 
that force themselves upon consciousness, in that, night after 
night, our dreams philosophize on their own. Even more: if 
we try to avoid these numina, and angrily reject the alchem- 
istic gold proffered by the unconscious, then it is an empiri- 
cal fact that we fare badly and may even develop symptoms, 
in violation of all common sense; while as soon as we return 
again to the stumbling block and make of it — even in a 
hypothetical way — a cornerstone, then the symptoms dis- 
appear and everything goes "inexplicably” well. 

In this dilemma it might seem that we could console 
ourselves with the idea that the unconscious is a necessary 
evil with which we have to reckon, and that it is wiser to 
accompany it on some of its .curious wanderings among 
symbols, even when their meaning is thoroughly question- 
able. We might deem it consonant with good health to repeat 
once more "the lesson of earlier humanity,” in Nietzsche’s 

To such intellectual expedients I can only object that 
they often do not hold up in the face of actual events. For 
we actually can observe that in the course of some years the 
entelechy of the self asserts itself to such a degree that con- 


sciousness must rise to a much higher level of achievement 
than this in order to keep pace with the unconscious. 

What, then, we can ascertain about the mandala symbol 
today is this: that it represents an autonomous psychic fact 
known through manifestations that are continually being 
repeated, are everywhere to be met with, and are always 
identical. It seems to be a kind of nuclear atom about whose 
inner structure and final meaning we know nothing. We 
may also regard it as the real — that is, the effective — mirror 
image of an attitude of consciousness, an attitude that can 
state neither its aim nor its purpose, and whose activity, 
because of this renouncement, is completely projected upon 
the virtual centre of the mandala. This cannot happen except 
under compulsion, and the compulsion always attaches to a 
situation in which the individual does not know how to help 
himself in any other way. 

As to its being a merely static psychological reflection, 
this is contradicted not only by the dynamic nature of the 
symbol, which occasionally announces itself with over- 
whelming spontaneity in dreams and visions, but also by the 
autonomous nature of the unconscious itself, which is not 
only the original form of psychic activity, but is also that 
psychic state that we traversed in early childhood and that 
we return to every night. There is no evidence for the asser- 
tion of a merely reactive (reflex) activity of the psyche. 
This is at best a biological working hypothesis of limited 
validity. When it is raised to a general truth it is nothing 
but a materialistic myth, for it overlooks the creative power 
of the psyche, which — whether we like it or not — exists, and 
in face of which all so-called causce are mere occasions. 

33. (Dream) A fight among savages in which acts of 
bestial cruelty occur. 

As was to be foreseen, the new complication — immor- 
tality — has started a raging conflict. 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 179 

34. (Dream) Conversation with a friend. The dreamer 
says to him, "I must persevere before the bleeding Christ and 
carry on the work of redeeming myself.” 

Like 33, this dream points to a subtle, unusual suffering 
caused by the incursion of a strange, hardly acceptable spir- 
itual world; hence the analogy to the tragedy of Christ: 
"My kingdom is not of this world.” It also betrays to us the 
fact that from now on the dreamer is in deadly earnest about 
working at his task. 

35. (Dream) An actor throws his hat at the wall, 
where it looks like this: 

As shown by certain materials not presented here, the 
actor points to a particular fact in the personal life of the 
dreamer. Up to now he had maintained a certain fiction 
about himself that prevented him from taking himself 
seriously. The fiction is not compatible with the serious atti- 
tude he has now attained. He must abandon the actor, for 
it was this man who rejected the self. The hat refers to the 
first dream in the initial series, where it is a strange hat that 
he places on his head. The actor throws the hat against the 
wall, and the hat proves to be a mandala. The "strange” hat 
was, therefore, the self, which at that time, when he was 
still playing a fictitious role, seemed foreign to him. 

3 6 . (Dream) He rides in a taxicab to the Rathaus- 
platz, but it is called the Marienhof. 

I only mention this dream in passing because it shows 
the feminine nature of the temenos. Rosa mystica is one of 


the attributes of the Virgin in the Litany of Loretito (also 
t fas, see dream 32 in this series). 

37. (Dream) Curves outlined with light, around a 
dark centre. Then a wandering in a dark cave. There a 
fight between good and evil takes place. There is also a prince 
who knows everything. The prince presents him with a ring 
containing a diamond and puts it on the fourth finger of 
his left hand. 

The circulation of light that began in dream 27 of this 
series comes in again more clearly. The light always denotes 
consciousness, and here it first runs along the periphery. 
The centre is still dark. It is the dark cave whose entrance 
is obviously again the cause of conflict. But it is like the 
prince who stands over all and knows everything, being 
also the possessor of the precious stone. The gift means noth- 
ing less than the dreamer’s vow to the self, for the ring 
finger of the left hand usually wears the marriage ring. 
To be sure, left is the unconscious, from which one might 
infer that the situation is still for the most part covered 
by unconsciousness. The prince seems to be the representa- 
tive of the cenigma regis. Compare the commentary to dream 
10 in this second series. 

38. (Dream) A circular table, four chairs around it. 
Table and chairs are empty. 

This dream confirms the above surmise. The mandala is 
not yet "in use.” 

39. (Visual impression) He falls into the depths. At 
the bottom is a bear whose eyes shine successively in four 
colours: red, yellow, green, blue. He really has four eyes 
that change themselves into four lights. The bear has disap- 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 181 

peared. The dreamer goes through a long dark passage. Light 
shimmers at the end. There lies a treasure, and on it the ring 
with the diamond. Of this the saying goes that it will lead 
him far to the east. 

This waking dream shows that the dreamer is still occu- 
pied with the dark centre. The bear stands for the chtho- 
nian element by which he might be seized. But then it ap- 
pears that the bear is a preliminary phase of the four colours 
(compare 11:23) that form a transition to the lapis, namely, 
the diamond, in whose play of colour all the tints of the 
rainbow are contained. The way to the east, no doubt, points 
to the unconscious as an antipode. According to the legend, 
the stone of the Grail comes from the east and must return 
thither. In alchemistic parlance, the bear corresponds to the 
nigredo of the materia prima. 

40. (Dream) Under the guidance of the unknown 
woman he must discover the pole at the greatest risk of life 
and limb. 

The pole is the point around which everything turns. 

41. (Visual impression) Yellow balls that run around 
in a circle, to the left. 

This presents the rotation around the centre, reminding 
us of a preceding dream in this series, number 21. 

42. (Dream) An old master shows him a spot on the 
ground with red light on it. 

The philosophus shows him the "centre.” The redness 
might connote the dawn. 

43. (Dream) In a fog a yellow light like the sun be- 
comes visible, but it is murky. Eight rays go out from the 


centre. It is the point that is to be pierced; the light should 
thrust itself through, but this has not yet quite happened. 

The dreamer himself notices the identity of the pierc- 
ing point with the pole in dream 40. As we surmised, it 
is a question of the appearance of the sun, which now be- 
comes yellow. But the light is murky — unquestionably an 
allusion to the deficiency of understanding. 

44. (Dream) In a square enclosure in which he must 
hold still. It is a prison for Lilliputians or children (?). An 
ill-natured woman guards them. The children start to move 
and begin to circulate around the periphery of the enclosure. 
He would like to run away, but may not. A child changes 
into an animal that bites him in the calf. 

The lack of clarity demands a further effort of concen- 
tration. For this reason he finds himself still in a childhood 
state (therefore "crooked,” see 11:26), and is imprisoned in 
the temenos under the care of an ill-natured mother-anima. 
The animal appears as in II: 18 and he is bitten; that is, he 
must expose himself and pay a price for it. The circumam- 
bulation means, as always, the concentration upon the un- 
conscious centre. He finds this state of tension almost un- 
bearable. But he awakened with the strong and agreeable 
sense of a solution, "as if he held the diamond in his hand.” 
The "children” connote the theme of the dwarfs that per- 
haps expresses "Cabiric” elements: unconscious formative 
powers. This we shall return to in dream j 6 . 

45. (Dream) A drill ground. Troops are there, but 
they are no longer equipping themselves for war. Instead, 
they form a star with eight beams rotating to the left. 

The essential point here, no doubt, is that the conflict 
seems to be surmounted. The star is not in the sky and is 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 183 

not a diamond; but a configuration on the ground formed 
by human beings. 

46. (Dream) Imprisoned in the square enclosure. 
Lions and a wicked sorceress appear. 

The chthonian prison does not release him because he 
is not yet ready to translate something into reality, as he 
should. It is a question of an important personal affair or 
duty, rather, and one that raises considerable doubt in his 

47. (Dream) The wise old man shows him a spot upon 
the ground that is marked out in a particular way. 

This is no doubt the spot upon the earth where the 
dreamer belongs if he is to realize his own self. 

48. (Dream) An acquaintance receives a prize because 
he has dug up a potter’s wheel out of the ground. 

The potter’s wheel rotates on earth (compare 11:45 ) 
and produces earthen — earthly — vessels, which, in a meta- 
phorical sense, we can perhaps call human bodies. 

49. (Dream) A rotating star-shaped figure. At the 
cardinal points of the circle are pictures that represent the 
seasons of the year. 

As it was the place that was previously designated, so 
now it is the time. Place and time are the most general and 
indispensable elements in every determination. The determi- 
nation of time and place was emphasized at the very begin- 
ning. Compare dreams 7, 8, and 9 in this group. 

50. (Dream) An unknown man gives him a precious 
stone. But a gang of Apaches falls upon him. He runs away 


(fear-provoking dream) and is able to save himself. The un- 
known woman says to him later that this will not always be 
the case. There would be a time when he might not run 
away, but would have to hold his ground. 

When the particular time is added to the particular 
place, then one is approaching reality at a rapid pace. Hence, 
the gift of the precious stone, and also the fear in face of 
the decision, which robs him of his determination. 

ji. (Dream) There is great tension. Many people are 
circulating around a large rectangle in the middle and four 
small rectangles that are constructed on the sides of the 
large one. The circulation goes leftward around the large 
rectangle and rightward around the small ones. In the centre 
is the star with the eight rays. In each of the centres of 
the four small rectangles is placed a bowl containing, re- 
spectively, red, yellow, green, and colourless water. The 
water rotates to the left. There arises a question that causes 
anxiety: whether the water is sufficient? 



% 0 


The colours point once again to the preliminary stage. 
The "anxious” question is whether there is enough -water of 
life — aqua nostra, energy, libido — on' hand to reach the ker- 
nel. In the centre the circulation still goes to the left: a 
movement of consciousness towards the unconscious. The 
centre is not yet sufficiently illuminated. The right-handed 
circulation around the small rectangles, which represent the 

dream symbols of the process of individuation i8j 

four (functions) , seems to suggest that the four functions 
are becoming conscious. The four (functions) are generally 
distinguished by the four colours of the rainbow. But the 
blue is strikingly absent here, and the square ground plan 
has been suddenly abandoned. The horizontal has extended 
itself at the cost of the vertical. We are, therefore, dealing 
with a mandala that may be called "distorted.” It must be 
observed by way of criticism that there is as yet no antitheti- 
cal arrangement of the functions; that is to say, the nature 
of the functions is not as yet so conscious that their peculiar 
contrariety could be recognized. The preponderance of the 
horizontal over the vertical denotes the dominance of the 
ego-consciousness, through which something of height and 
depth is forfeited. . 

52. (Dream) A rectangular dance hall. Everyone goes 
leftward around the periphery. Suddenly the command is 
shouted, "To the kernels!” But the dreamer must first go 
into the next room to crack some nuts. Then the people 
climb down rope ladders to the water. 

Actually, the moment seems to have arrived to press 
forward to the "kernel,” but he must go into the small 
rectangle ("next room”) ; that is, he must first crack a few 
problem-nuts in one of the four functions. Meanwhile the 
process goes on downward to the "water.” The vertical is 
thus prolonged and a square again arises from the incor- 
rect rectangle. It is the square that expresses the complete 
symmetry of conscious and unconscious with everything 
that the symmetrization of conscious and unconscious 
means in psychology. 

53. (Dream) He finds himself in an empty, square 
space that is describing a rotation. A voice calls "Don’t let 
him out. He won’t pay the tax.” 


This refers to the insufficient realization of himself in 
the personal affair already mentioned, which in this case is 
an essential condition of individuation and cannot be 
avoided. As was to have been expected, after the preparatory 
emphasis of the vertical in the preceding dream, the square 
is now reconstituted. The cause of the disturbance lay in 
appraising the challenge of the unconscious (the vertical) 
too cheaply, so that a levelling down of the personality (the 
recumbent rectangle) was brought about. 

After this dream the dreamer worked out six mandalas 
in whicji he tried to determine the right length of the ver- 
tical, the "circulation” and the distribution of colours. At 
the end of this work came the following dream: 

54. (Dream) I came into a particular, hallowed house, 
the "house of the gathering.” In the background are numer- 
ous candles that are arranged in a peculiar form with four 
points running upward. Outside, at the door of the house, 
stands an old man. People go in. They do not talk, and 
stand motionless in order to collect themselves inwardly. 
The man at the door says of the visitants of the house, "As 
soon as they come out again, they are clean.” Now I go 
into the house myself and am able to concentrate fully. 
Then a voice speaks: "What you do is dangerous. Religion 
is not a tax that you can pay to enable you to dispense 
with the image of the woman, for this image is indispensa- 
ble. Woe to them who use religion as a substitute for another 
side of the life of the soul; they are in error and will be 
accursed. Religion is no substitute, but is to be added to the 
other activity of the soul as a completion. Out of the full- 
ness of life shall you bring forth your religion; only then 
will you be blessed !” While the last sentence is being spoken 
in especially loud tones, I hear distant music, simple har- 
monies upon an organ. Something about it recalls the "fire 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 187 

magic” theme of Wagner. As I now go out of the house 
I see a burning mountain and feel: “The fire that is not 
quenched is a holy fire” (Shaw: Saint Joan). 

The dreamer notes that this dream was a “strong ex- 
perience” for him. In truth, the dream has the quality of 
the numen, and we will therefore not go wrong in assuming 
that it represents a new summit of insight and understand- 
ing. Indeed, the “voice” has as a rule the character of ab- 
solute authority and generally presents itself at decisive mo- 

The house surely corresponds to the square that is a 
place of “gathering.” The four shining points in the back- 
ground again denote the four. The remark about the cleans- 
ing refers to the transforming function of the taboo en- 
closure. The production of wholeness, which is prevented by 
the "flight from the tax,” naturally calls for the “image 
of the woman,” since as "anima” it represents the fourth, 
"inferior” function, feminine because it is contaminated 
with the unconscious. In what way this "tax” is to be paid 
depends upon the nature of the inferior function as well as 
of its auxiliary, and also upon the attitude-type. The achieve- 
ment can be concrete as well as symbolic in nature. But as 
to which is the valid form, this decision does not rest with 
the dictates of consciousness. 

The view expressed in the dream that religion may not 
be a substitute for "another side of the life of the soul” 
surely spells for many persons a striking innovation. Accord- 
ing to this conception, religion is equated with complete- 
ness; it even appears to express the integration of the self 
in the “fullness of life.” 

The soft chiming in of the fire magic, the Loki theme, 
is not inappropriate, for what does the “fullness of life” 
mean? What is the significance of "completeness”? It would 
seem to me that there are reasons enough here for some 



anxiety, since a human being as a whole throws a shadow. 
It was not for nothing that the fourth was separated from 
the three and banished to the kingdom of everlasting fire. 
But does not an uncanonical saying of the Master declare, 
"Who is near unto me, is near unto the fire”? 21 

Such terrible ambiguities are not for grown-up chil- 
dren, and, even of old, people named Heraclitus the "dark 
one” because he said things that were too plain, and called 
life itself an "eternally living fire.” This is why there are 
uncanonical sayings for those who can hear plainly; and — 
last but not least — this is why even the Bible is on the Index. 

55. (Dream) A silver dish with four cracked nuts at 
the cardinal points. 

This dream shows how the problems have been dis- 
posed of from j 2 on. To be sure, they are not completely 
settled. The goal so far attained is represented by the circle 
divided into four, whose quadrants are tinted with the four 
colours. The circulation is leftward. Justice is done to sym- 
metry in this way, but the contrariety of the functions is 
still unrecognized, in spite of the enlightened dream 54. 
From this circumstance we must conclude that the "realiza- 
tion” meets with strong inner resistance, partly of a philo- 
sophic and ethical nature, having a certain historical justi- 
fication that is not easily put aside. 

j 6. (Dream) Four children carry a large, dark ring. 
They go in a circle. The dark, unknown woman appears 
and says she will come again, just now it is the festival of 
the solstice. 

The elements of dream 44 are here united again: the 
children and the dark woman, who was the bad witch be- 
fore. The solstice indicates the turning point. The children, 
the dwarf gods, bring the ring. 


J7. (Visual Impression) The dark ring. In the centre 
an egg. 

y 8. (Visual impression) : Out of the egg comes a black 
eagle and seizes in his beak the ring that has turned to gold. 
The dreamer is on a ship and the bird flies before it. 

The eagle denotes the heights. Previously it was the 
depths; people who climb down to the water. He seizes the 
whole mandala and. thus takes the dreamer under his guid- 
ance. Carried by a ship, the dreamer sails after the bird. 
Birds are thoughts and flights of mind. Usually it is fan- 
tasies or intuitive ideas that are represented in this way — 
the winged Mercury, genii, and angels. The ship is the vehicle 
that carries him over the sea and the depths of the uncon- 
scious. As a human construction the ship has the meaning 
of a system, method or way; compare Hinayana and Maha- 
yana, the small and great vehicle, the two forms of Bud- 
dhism. The flight of thought precedes, the methodical elabo- 
ration follows after. A man cannot tread upon the rainbow 
bridge like a god, but must travel across underneath with 
whatever tools of afterthought he may have at his command. 
The eagle — synonyms: vulture, raven — is a well-known al- 
chemistic symbol. Even the lapis, the rebis (made out of 
two parts, and thus often hermaphroditic, as a coalescence 
of Sol and Luna) is frequently represented with wings, in 
this way standing for premonition — intuition. All these sym- 
bols in the last analysis depict the state of affairs that we 
call the self, in its role of transcending consciousness. This 
visual impression is like a snapshot of an unfolding process 
that leads to the next stage. 

59. ("Great vision”) There is a vertical and a hori- 
zontal circle, having a common centre. 

This is the world-clock. It is supported by black birds. 
The vertical circle is a blue disk with a white edge, divided 


into 4X8=32 parts. On it revolves a pointer. The hori- 
zontal circle consists of four colours. Upon it standi four 
little men with pendulums, and around it lies the ring that 
was formerly dark and is now golden (previously carried by 
the four children). 

The "clock” has three rhythms or beats: 

The small beat: The pointer of the blue, vertical circle 
advances 1/32. 

The middle beat: A complete revolution of the pointer. 
At the same time the horizontal circle advances 

The great beat: 32 middle beats make a revolution of 
the golden ring. 

This curious vision made the deepest and most lasting 
impression on the dreamer; it was an "impression of the 
greatest harmony,” as he himself puts it. The world-clock 
is certainly the "austere figure” that is identical with the 
Cabiri, that is, the four children or four little men with 
the pendulums. It is a three-dimensional mandala; one, there- 
fore, that has attained substantiality and realization. Un- 
fortunately, the discretion required of a doctor forbids my 
communicating the biographical details. The simple state- 
ment must suffice that this realization did actually take 

Why the vision of this curious figure should give the 
impression of "greatest harmony” is in one way hard to 
understand; in another, when we consider the texts that fur- 
nish a basis for historical comparison, it is easy to conceive. 
It is hard to feel our way into the matter because the mean- 
ing of the figure is so excessively dark. And when the 
meaning is incomprehensible, while form and colour have 
no regard for aesthetic claims, then neither the understand- 
ing nor the sense of beauty is satisfied, and we cannot feel 


in what way the impression of "greatest harmony” could 
arise. We can only venture the hypothesis that disparate and 
incongruous elerpents have combined themselves in the most 
fortunate way in this figure and have produced an image 
that realizes to a high degree the "intentions” of the un- 
conscious. We must assume that the picture is the particu- 
larly happy expression of an otherwise unknowable psychic 
fact that could manifest itself up till now only in seem- 
ingly disconnected aspects. 

The impression is extremely abstract. One of the ideas 
that underlie it seems to be that two heterogeneous systems 
intersect by sharing a common centre. If, as heretofore, we 
start with the assumption that the "centre” and its circum- 
ference represent the totality of psychic being, and thus the 
self, then the figure tells us that in the self two heterogene- 
ous systems intersect, having to each other a functional 
relation determined by laws and regulated by "three 
rhythms.” The self is by definition the centre and the cir- 
cumference of the conscious and unconscious system. The 
regulation of its function by "three rhythms” is something 
that I cannot support by documentary evidence. I do not 
know what the rhythms allude to. But I do not doubt for a 
moment that a valid allusion exists. Since the figure has a 
cosmic aspect (world-clock!), I must surmise that it is a 
paraphrase or perhaps even a spontaneous intimation of 
space-time; in any case, that it is an adumbration of space- 
time, of a mathematical and, therefore, four-dimensional 
nature, but only given to perception in a three-dimensional 
projection. I do not wish to lay too great a weight on this 
train of argument, as the interpretation of the figure would 
considerably overtax my present understanding. 

As regards the comparative interpretation from history, 
we are in a more fortunate position — at least as to the gen- 
eral aspects of the subject. First, we have at our disposal 
the mandala symbolism of three continents; secondly, the 


special time symbolism of the mandala as it developed, par- 
ticularly in the west, under the influence of astrology. The 
horoscope itself is a mandala (a clock) with a dark centre 
and a leftward circumambulatio with "houses” and plane- 
tary phases. The mandalas of ecclesiastical art, especially 
the floor mandalas before the high altar and beneath the 
transept, often employ the circle of zodiacal beasts or the 
seasons. A related idea is that of the identity of Christ with 
the calendar of the church, of which he is both the stationary 
pole and the life. The 6eds xP Lr7T ^ as vlos rod avOpuirov 
is a projection of the individual self in the form of a sym- 
bolic figure, a plain anticipation of the idea of the self. From 
this fact arises the Gnostic (Ophitic) blending of Christ 
with the serpent of the Agathodaimon, and the Horus sym- 
bolism as it still showed itself in the Middle Ages in the 
well-known portrayal: the Christ throned in the mandala 
with the symbols of the four Evangelists, the three animals 
and the angel, corresponding to Horus the Father with his 
four sons, or Osiris with the four sons of Horus. 28 For Horus 
is also a ijXtos ava toXtJs , 29 and Christ was honoured as such 
by the early Christians. 

We find a peculiar parallel in the works of Guillaume 
de Digulleville, prior of the Cistercian monastery of Chalis, 
a Norman poet who, independently of Dante, composed 
three "Pelerinages” between 1330 and 1333: Le Pelerinage 
de la Vie Humaine, de I’Ame et de Jesus Christ . 90 The last 
hymn of the Pelerinage de I’Ame contains a vision of para- 
dise. This consists of seven large spheres each of which 
contains seven smaller ones. All the spheres rotate, and this 
movement' is called siecle — sceculum. The heavenly siecles 
are the prototypes of the earthly centuries. The angel who 
guides the poet explains to him: Quand la sainte Eglise dans 
ces oraisons ajoute: "in scecula sceculorum,” il ne s’agit point 
du temps de la-bas, mais de I’eternite. At the same time, 
the siecles are spherical spaces in which the blessed dwell. 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 193 

Siccles and cieux are identical. In the uppermost sky, which 
is of pure gold, the king is seated upon his circular throne 
that shines more brightly than the sun. A crown ( couronne ) 
of precious stones encompasses him. Beside him upon a cir- 
cular throne of brown crystal is seated the queen who pleads 
for the sinners, Mary as the wife of God. 

“While gazing at the golden sky, the pilgrim perceived 
a marvellous circle that seemed to be three feet across. It 
came out of the golden sky at a certain point and entered 
it again at another and it followed the whole course of it.” 
This circle is of the colour of the sapphire, blue . It is a small 
circle with a diameter of three feet, that clearly moves like 
a rolling disk over the large circle. The large circle inter- 
sects with the golden circle of the sky. 

While Guillaume is absorbed in this sight, there sud- 
denly appear three spirits clothed in purple, with golden 
crowns and girdles, and they enter the golden heaven. This 
moment, the angel tells him, is une f-ete, like a church fes- 
tival on earth. "This circle that you see is the calendar — 

Which in running its whole course 
Shows of the saints their days 
When they must be celebrated. 

Each makes one round of the circle. 

Each star is for a day, 

Each sun for the space 
Of days thirty or zodiacal.” 

The three figures are saints whose feast day is just being 
celebrated. The small circle that enters the golden sky is 
three feet wide, and it is three figures that make their sudden 
ingress into heaven. They signify the moment of time in 
eternity, like the circle of the calendar. But just why the 
“calendar” has a diameter of three feet, and why there are 
three figures, remains unexplained. We naturally recall the 
three rhythms of our vision that are set going by the move- 
ment of the pointer on the blue circle and that come into 


the system as inexplicably as the calendar circle into the 
golden sky. 

The guide now continues to inform Guillaume about 
the meaning of the signs of the zodiac from the point of 
view of sacred history, and closes with the remark that the 
feast of the Twelve Fishermen., will be celebrated in the Sign 
of the Fishes; they, therefore, appear before the Trinity. 
Then it suddenly occurs to Guillaume that he has never 
rightly understood the Trinity, and he asks the angel for 
an explanation. The angel answers: "Now, there are three 
principal colours: green, red and gold. These three colours 
are seen to be united in many a work of watered silk and 
in the feathers of many birds, such as the peacock. The all- 
powerful king who puts three colours into unison, can he 
not also bring it about that one substance is three?” The 
regal colour of gold is ascribed to God the Father, the red 
to God the Son, because he has spilled his blood, and to the 
Holy Ghost the green, "the colour that verdures and com- 
forts.” Thereupon the angel warns him not to inquire fur- 
ther, and disappears. But Guillaume awakes and finds him- 
self in his bed, and so ends Le Pelerinage de l’ Ante. 

But we must still ask something: “Three there are, 
where does the fourth remain?” Why is blue missing? It was 
just this colour that was missing in the "distorted” man- 
dala of our dreamer. Curiously enough, the "calendar” that 
intersects the golden circle is blue, as likewise the vertical 
circle in the three-dimensional mandala. We surmise that 
"blue,” standing for the vertical, means height and depth 
(the blue sky above, the blue sea below) , and that the short- 
ening of the vertical lines makes the square into a hori- 
zontal rectangle, bringing with it something like an infla- 
tion of consciousness; that the vertical, therefore, corre- 
sponds to the unconscious. But for man the unconscious has 
feminine characteristics. Blue is the traditional colour of 
the Virgin’s celestial cloak. In busying himself with the trin- 


ity and threefoldness of the roy, Guillaume has forgotten 
the reyne. Faust prays to her in these words: 

"Highest ruler of the world! 

Grant me in the blue 
Outspread tent of the sky 
To gaze upon your secret.” 

It is inevitable that, for Guillaume, the blue should 
be missing from the tetrad of the rainbow colours, because 
it is feminine in nature. And like woman herself, the anima 
means the height and depth of man. Without the blue ver- 
tical circle the golden mandala remains a bodiless, two-di- 
mensional thing, a merely abstract picture. Only the inter- 
ference of time and space in the here and now makes reality. 
Completeness becomes real only in the moment, that mo- 
ment that Faust searched for during a lifetime. 

The poet Guillaume did, indeed, suspect the heretical 
truth when to the king he joined a royal spouse who is seated 
upon an earth-brown crystal. For what is the sky without 
Madam Earth? And how can man attain his completion if 
the royal spouse does not plead for his black soul? It is she 
who understands darkness, for has she not brought her 
throne, the earth itself, into the sky with her, albeit as a 
delicate metaphor? She adds the missing blue to gold, red, 
and green and forms the harmonious whole. 

The vision of the "world-clock” is neither the last nor 
the highest in the development of the symbols of the objec- 
tive psyche. But it concludes about the first third of the 
material that consists of some 400 dreams and visions. This 
series is noteworthy because it describes in an unusually 
complete way a psychic fact that I had observed long before 
in many individual cases. We owe it not only to the com- 
• pleteness of the objective material, but also to the care and 
sharp-sightedness of the dreamer, that we are placed in a 
position to follow the synthetic work of the unconscious 


step by step. The troubled course of this synthesis would 
doubtless have been presented much more thoroughly if I 
had included in the investigation the 340 dreams that oc- 
curred in among the 59 notations treated here. Unfortu- 
nately, this was not possible, because the dreams reach to 
some extent into the intimate circumstances of the dreamer’s 
personal life and so could not be made public. Therefore, I 
had to restrict myself to the impersonal materials. 

I trust that I have succeeded in throwing, some light 
upon the development of the symbols of the self, and in 
mastering to some degree the serious difficulties inherent in 
materials drawn from experience, like these. At the same 
time, I am fully aware that the matters adduced in com- 
parison, which are necessary for the explanation and supple- 
mentation of the subject, might have been multiplied sev- 
eral times. But so as not to overburden the meaning I have 
exercised the greatest reserve in this respect. As a result, 
there is much that is only hinted at, and this is not to’ be 
taken as a sign of superficiality. I believe myself to be in 
a position to offer detailed evidence for my opinions. But 
in saying this I do not wish to create the impression that 
I presume to have said anything final on this highly in- 
volved subject. 

To be sure, it is not the first time that I have treated 
of a series of spontaneous manifestations of the unconscious. 
I have done it once before in my book, Psychology of the 
Unconscious, but in that case I dealt rather with a problem 
of neurosis — puberty — while this is a broader problem in- 
volving individuation. Moreover, there is an important dif- 
ference between the personalities in question. That earlier 
case, which I never saw at first hand, ended in a psychic 
catastrophe — psychosis. But the present case represents a 
normal development such as I have often observed in per- 
sons of superior mentality. 

But what is particularly noteworthy in this case is 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 197 

the consistency in the development of the central symbol. 
We can hardly avoid the impression that the unconscious 
process moves in a spiral path around a '"centre” that it 
slowly approaches, the "properties” of the "centre,” mean- 
while, showing themselves always more clearly. We could 
also put it the other way around and say that the central 
point, unknowable in itself, acts like a magnet upon the 
disparate materials and processes of the unconscious and, 
like a crystal grating, catches them one by one. So we find 
that, in other cases, the centre is often represented by the 
spider in its web, especially when the conscious attitude is 
still predominantly one of fear of the unconscious processes. 
But if the way is opened to the process as happened in this 
case (objectively and subjectively) , then the central sym- 
bol forces its way with unrelenting consistency through the 
apparent chaos of the dramatic entanglements of the per- 
sonal psyche. In doing so', it constantly renews itself. Thus, 
in the epitaph of the great Bernoulli, it is said of the spiral: 
Eadem mutata resurgo. Representations of the centre as a 
spiral are accordingly frequent, as for instance the serpent 
coiled around the creative point, the egg. 

Yes, it seems as if the personal complications and the 
dramatic, subjective climaxes that make up the quintessence 
of life and its whole intensity were but hesitation or timid 
shrinking before the finality of this strange or uncanny 
process of crystallization, when, indeed, they do not appear 
to be meticulous objections to it and petty distractions. One 
often has the impression that the personal psyche chases 
around this centre like a shy animal, fascinated and fright- 
ened at the same time, always running away and yet always 

I hope that I have given no occasion for the false be- 
lief that I have any knowledge of the nature of the "cen- 
tre,” for it is simply unknowable — at least for me — and 
can only be expressed symbolically in phenomenal forms. 


as is the case — one might add — with every object of experi- 
ence. Among the properties peculiar to the centre I have 
always been struck by the phenomenon of fourfoldness. 
That it is not “simply” a question of "four,” as for in- 
stance the four cardinal directions or something of that 
kind, is shown by the fact that there often arises a rivalry 
of three and four, particularly in the cases of men, whether 
by chance or not I do not know. Likewise, though not as 
often, there is a rivalry of four and five, and the rare man- 
dalas with five rays, mainly in the cases of women, are shown 
to be abnormal by their lack of symmetry. It thus seems as 
if a clear insistence upon four were the normal thing, or 
as if there were statistically a greater probability for the 

Now — and I should not suppress this observation, surely 
— it is a curious lusus nature that the chief chemical com- 
ponent of an organic body is carbon, characterized by a 
valency of four; it is well known, moreover, that the “dia- 
mond” is a carbon crystal. Carbon is black — coal, graphite — 
but the diamond is "clearest water.” Such an analogy would 
be a lamentable intellectual offence if the phenomenon of 
the four were a matter of mere conscious poetizing and 
not a spontaneous production of the objective psyche. Even 
if we supposed that dreams could be influenced to a note- 
worthy degree by autosuggestion, this being naturally a 
question of meaning rather than of form, we would still 
have to prove that the dreamer’s consciousness made de- 
cided efforts to force the idea of fourfoldness upon the. un- 
conscious. But there is absolutely no question of such a pos- 
sibility in this case, any more than in the many other cases 
I have observed, not to mention the numerous historical 
and ethnographic parallels, only a few of which have been 
mentioned here. 

If we survey the situation as a whole, we come to the 
inevitable conclusion — at least in my opinion — that a psychic 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 199 

element is present that expresses itself through the tetrad. 
This conclusion demands neither daring speculation nor ex- 
travagant fantasy. If I have called the centre the “self,” I 
did so after ripe reflection and a careful assessment of the 
data of experience as well as of history. A materialistic in- 
terpretation might well say that the “centre” was “nothing 
but” the point at which the psyche becomes unknowable be- 
cause it there coalesces with the body. A spiritualistic in- 
terpretation, on the other hand, could maintain that the 
“self” was “nothing but” the “spirit” that animates soul 
and body and that breaks into time and space at this creative 
point. I explicitly refrain from such physical and meta- 
physical speculation and content myself with the determi- 
nation of empirical facts, holding this to be infinitely more 
important, as regards the advancement of human knowl- 
edge, than if I ran after stylish intellectual follies or after 
supererogations of faith labelled “religious.” 

As far as my experience informs me, it is a question of 
significant "nuclear processes” in the objective psyche, of 
a kind of picturing of the goal that the “purposeful” 
psychic process apparently sets itself without being led to 
it by suggestion from without . 31 Externally, of course, there 
always exists a certain state of psychic insufficiency, some- 
thing like hunger; but the goal envisioned by this state is 
some familiar and favourite food, and not a dish that is un- 
known to consciousness or seems absurd. The goal that the 
deeper psychic need sets itself, the image that promises to 
bring “healing” and completion , is beyond all measure 
strange to consciousness and can find entrance into it only 
with the greatest difficulties. The situation is naturally dif- 
ferent with people who live in a time when such images 
of the goal have dogmatic validity, or in surroundings where 
this is recognized. In such cases these images are by that 
very fact presented to consciousness; the unconscious has 
its mirror image held up to it, in which it recognizes itself 


and by which it is brought to reunite itself with conscious- 
ness. This involves the assumption, of course, that conscious- 
ness is really stirred. 

As regards the question of the rise of the mandala 
theme, it would appear to a superficial view that it arises 
gradually in the course of the dream series. Actually, how- 
ever, it is unquestionable that it only comes to show itself 
more clearly and in a more differentiated form; it was al- 
ways present and, properly speaking, already appeared in 
the first dream. As the nymphs said, "We were always there, 
only you did not notice us.” 

It is, therefore, more probable that we are dealing with 
a type-form that exists a priori, with an archetype that is 
inherent in the unconscious and therefore has no part in 
the coming into being and passing away of the individual. 
We might say that the archetype is an "eternal” presence, 
and that it is merely a question whether consciousness be- 
comes aware of it or not. I think that we can form a more 
probable hypothesis, and one that better explains the ob- 
served facts, if we assume that the theme’s appearing always 
more clearly and itnore frequently 82 in the course of the 
dream series corresponds to a more exact conception of a 
type existing a priori, rather than that the mandala is first 
produced in the course of the series. This latter assumption 
is contravened by the fact that such fundamental ideas as 
that of the hat covering the personality, the encircling snake, 
and the perpetuum mobile, appear at the very beginning. 

If the mandala theme is an archetype, it should occur 
collectively; that is, it should in theory befall every one. 
Yet in practice it is met with in relatively few cases in a 
distinct form; but this in no way prevents its playing the 
part of a concealed pole around which everything turns 
-in the last analysis. Every life is, at bottom, the realization 
of a whole, that is, of a self, so that the realization can also 
be called individuation. For all life is bound to individuals 


who carry and realize it, and apart from them is unim- 
aginable. But every carrier has an individual specification 
and determination, and the meaning of living existence con- 
sists in its realizing itself in these terms. To be sure, the 
“sense” is often something that could as well be called "non- 
sense”; yet there is a fair measure of incommensurability 
between the secret of existence and human understanding. 
Sense and nonsense are anthropomorphic interpretations serv- 
ing the purpose of an outlook that we hold to be sufficiently 

As the parallels from history show, the mandala sym- 
bolism is in no way a matter of unique curiosities, but of 
what we may well call uniformities. If this were not so, then 
there would exist no materials for comparison. But it is 
exactly this possibility of comparison with the mental prod- 
ucts of all ages and from all directions of the compass that 
shows us most plainly what an immense importance was 
ascribed by the consensus gentium to the processes of the 
objective psyche. This is reason enough not to make light 
of them in a superficial way. My empirical observations as 
a doctor only confirm this valuation. Of course, there are 
persons who hold it unscientific to take anything seriously; 
they do not wish to have their intellectual playground dis- 
turbed by seriousness. But the doctor who disregards human 
feeling-values commits a bad blunder, and if he tries to set 
"right” the mysterious and obscure working of nature in 
order to be scientific, as he calls it, he is substituting his 
own banal sophistry for the healing processes of nature. He 
should take to heart the alchemistic wisdom of old: 

Naturalissimum et perfectissimum opus est generate 
tale qua ip sum est. 


i. Scholars and students are referred, for Dr. Jung's complete annotation and docu- * 
mentation of this chapter, to the original German version in the Eranos-Jabrbuch , 


Zurich, Rhein-Verlag, 1935. C. G. Jung, Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (II). 
London: Bailliere, Tindall and Cox, 1928. 

2. See the bibliography of works by C. G. Jung, page 30 6. 

3. For this concept compare my essay in Wirhchkett der Scele (Zurich: Rascher, 
I934» PP» 1 #•) and T. Wolff, Einfuhrung tn die Grundlagen der komplexen Psychologic 
(pp. 34 ff.)» in Die kul die Bedeutung der komplexen Psychologie ‘(Berlin: Julius 
Springer, 193 s)* 

4. The seductive virgins appear in a similar role at the beginning of the nekuia of 
PoliAlo: Nekuia (nekuia from nekus, meaning corpse), title of the eleventh book of the 
Odyssey , is the sacrifice to the dead for conjuring up the departed out of Hades. Nekuia 
is, therefore, a suitable designation for the '‘journey to Hades,” the descent into the land 
of the dead, and was used by Dietrich in this sense in his commentary upon the Codex 
of Akhmim t which contains an apocalyptic fragment of the Gospel of Peter. ( Nekyia , 
Beitrage zur Erklarung der neuentdeckten Petrusapokalypse , II Aufl. Leipzig: Teubner, 
19 13). Typical instances are the Divina Commedia , the classic Walpurgtsnacht in Faust , 
the apocryphal descents into Hell of Christ, and so on. The French edition of the 
Songe de Poliphile dates from 1600. Its full title is Le Tableau des Riches Inventions 
couvertes du voile des feintes Amoureuses, qui sont representees dans le Songe de Poltphtle 
Desvoilees des ombres du Songe et subtilement exposees par Beroalde (Paris: Guillemot). 
Poliphilo is the work of the Dominican Franceso Colonna (1433-1327). See Claudius 
Popclin, Le Songe de Poliphile (Paris: 1833). The Ipnerotomachia (Italian title) dates 
from about 1467 and was printed in 1499 or thereabout. 

j. Eduard Fritz Knuchel, D/> Umwandlung in Kult, Magie und Recbtsgebraucb, 
Basel: Schweiz. Gesellschaft fur Volkskunde, 1919. 

6 . See Ruska, Turba Pbilosopborum, in Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte der 
Naturwissenschaften und der Medizin. Berlin: Julius Springer, 1931. 

'7. Wirth, Aus orientalischen Cbroniken, p. 199, 1894. 

8. Litany of Loretto. 

9. (Rosarium). As to the curious composition of the quotations from Hermes 
in the Rosarium see footnote to Hermes, below. 

10. Foucart, Les Grands Mysteres d’Eleusis. Paris: C. Klincksieck, 1900. 

11. See H. L. Fleischer, Hermes Trismegistus > An die Memchlicbe Seele (Leipzig: 
1870, p. 6). Also compare the round form of Plato’s primeval man, and the o<paipo s 
of Empedocles. 

12. Compare Augustine’s argument that God is not the sun but he who made it, 
and the testimony of Eusebius who was a witness of “Christian” sun-worship. 

13. Heinrich Zimmer, Kunstform und Yoga im indischen Kultbild. Berlin: Frank- 
furter Verlags-Anstalt, 1926. 

14. See Reitzenstein, Die hellenistischen Mysterienreligionen nach ihren Grundge- 
danken und Wirkungen. Leipzig: Teubner. 

13. Charlotte A. Baynes, A Coptic Treatise Contained in the Codex Brucianus. 
Cambridge: 1933. 

1 6 . Ibid , p. 38. 

17. Ibid , p. 94. 

18. Ibid , p. 70. 

19. The quotations from Hermes come from the Tractatus Aureus. These quo- 
tations by the anonymous author show arbitrary alterations that have far more 
significance than mere faulty readings. They are actually original interpolations to 

dream symbols of the process of individuation 203 

which he lends higher authority by using the name of Hermes. I have compared the 
three printed editions of the Tractatus Aureus in the British Museum, of 1566, 1610 
and 1692, as well as the English translation by Mrs. Atwood (18 jo), and have found 
that they all agree. In the Tractatus Aureus the passages from the Rosarium read: 
Jam Venus ait: Ego genero lumen , nec tenebra: mece nature sunt ... me igttur et 
fratri meo conjunctis nihil melius ac venerabilius. 

20. Mrs. Atwood (1850), A Suggestive Inquiry into Hermetic Philosophy and 
Alchemy (Belfast: revised edition, 1920). 

21. Vollers, Chidher in Archiv fiir Religionswissenschaft , xii, 235. 

22. For the most part only darkly hinted at by the alchemists, as, for instance, 
de pinguiori carne sume. The Tractatus Aureus runs: "Hear then these words, and 
understand them; keep them and meditate thereon and seek for nothing more: Man is 
generated from the principle of Nature, whose inward substance is fleshy and not from 
anything else. Meditate on this letter and reject superfluities.** 

23. Orphic mosaic from “iVamithia: Eisler, Orpheus the Fisher (London: 1921). 
We might easily take this inscription in a humorous sense, and even so we would not 
offend the spirit of the classic mysteries. One should compare with it the frescoes of the 
Villa dei Misteri in Pompeii (Amadeo Maiuri, La Villa dei Misteri ’, Rome, 1931) where 
drunkenness and ecstasy not only approach each other, but are one and the same. But 
since the initiations have from of old the significance of healing, the advice could also 
be taken as a warning against the drinking of water, since it is well known that in the 
southern countries drinking water is the mother of dysentery and typhus abdominalis. 

24. Tractatus Aureus , Chapter ii: "The Masculine truly is the heaven of the femi- 
nine, and the Feminine is the earth of the Masculine.** 

25. In alchemy, the vulture, eagle, and crow are essentially synonymous. 

2 6. The centre of the mandala is sometimes referred to in alchemistic writing as 
the vas. It corresponds to the calix of the Indian lotus, the place of origin and the abode 
of the gods. It is called the padma, a term that denotes femininity and corresponds to 
yoni. In alchemy, the vas is often taken as the uterus in which the "child" comes into 
being. In the Litany of Lorettiq, Mary is three times called the vas: (vas spirituale, 
honorabile , insigne devotionis) ; and in mediaeval poetry she is referred to as the "ocean 
flower** that harbours the Christ. Compare dream 36 of this second series. 

27. Ait autem ipse saluator : Qui iuxta me est, iuxta ignem est, qui longe est a me , 
longe est a regno. (Origen, in Jerem. horn, xx, 3, cited from Preuschen, Antilegomena, 
p. 44. Giessen: 1901). 

28. Bas-relief of Philae, Wallis Budge, Osiris and the Egyptian Resurrection, i, 3; 
the sons of Horus standing in the lotus, in the Hunefer papyrus, Wallis Budge, Book 
of the Dead. Facsimile 1899, Plate y— Sometimes three with animal heads and one with 
2 human head, as in the Kerasher papyrus, Wallis Budge, op. cit. In a manuscript of the 
seventh century (Gellone) even the Evangelists have their animal heads. 

29. So named, in Meliton of Sardes, for instance. (From the Analecta Sacra, quoted 
by Cumont, Textes et Monuments du culte de Mithras, i, 353.) 

30. Abbl Joseph Delacotte, Guillaume de Digulleville .* Trois Romans-Poemes du 
XIV me siecle. Paris: 1932. 

31. The image that presents itself in our subject material as a goal may serve as 
a picture of the origin when regarded from the historical standpoint. I mention, by way 
of example, the conception of paradise in the Old Testament, and especially the creation 




of Adam in the Slavic Book of Enoch. (M. Foerster, Adams Erscbaffung und Namenge - 
bung , Archiv fur Rehgionswissenschaft, xi, pp. 478 ff.) 

32. If the 400 dreams are divided into 8 groups of 50 each, then thp number of 
mandalas occurring in each group is as follows: 

















There is thus a substantial increase in the numerical occurrence of the mandala themes 
in the course of the whole series. 


The Idea of Redemption in Alchemy 1 

Slowly, in the course of the eighteenth century, al- 
chemy wasted away through its own obscurity. It tried to 
explain everything on the principle of: obscurum per ob- 
scurius, ignotum per ignotius (what is dark by what is 
darker still, what is unknown by what is still more un- 
known) ; and this principle agreed very badly with the spirit 
of enlightenment and especially with the dawning of chem- 
istry as a science towards the end of the century. These two 
new forces of the mind, however, only gave to alchemy the 
finishing stroke. Its inner decay began fully a hundred years 
before, in the time of Jacob Boehme, when many alche- 
mists deserted their retorts and crucibles to devote themselves 
exclusively to Hermetic philosophy. It was then that the 
chemist parted company with the follower of Hermes. 
Chemistry became a natural science, while Hermetic philos- 
ophy lost its contact with the firm ground of empiricism 
and climbed beyond itself to allegories and speculations that 
were as bombastic as they were empty of content, and that 
were kept alive only by memories of a better age. But this 
better age was the time when the alchemist still wrestled 
in his mind with the problems of matter — when the explor- 
ing consciousness stood face to face with the dark void of 
the unknown, and was confident of discerning within it 
forms and laws. 

The basic concept of alchemy is the work (opus ) . This 
consists of a practical part, the actual operatio, which we 

must conceive as an experimentation with metals, particu- 



larly quicksilver, but also sulphur and various salts and 
ashes. In my’ opinion it is quite hopeless to bring any kind 
of order out of the boundless chaos of substances and pro- 
cedures. Only rarely can we form an approximate idea of 
the manner in which the work was carried on, with what 
materials and with what results. The reader usually finds 
himself in the most impenetrable darkness with regard to 
the names of the substances, which are almost always chosen 
hit or miss; and it is just the most used substances like mer- 
cury, salt, and sulphur whose alchemistic significance be- 
longs to the secrets of the art. 

Moreover, it would be a mistake to imagine that the 
alchemists always understood one another. They themselves 
complain about the obscurity of the texts, and occasionally 
betray their inability to understand their own symbols and 
symbolic figures. So, for example, the very learned Dr. 
Michael Majer, an encyclopaedist of alchemy, accuses Geber, 
the classical authority, of being the obscurest of all; one 
would need the help of an CEdipus, he says, to read the riddle 
of the Gebrina Sphinx. Bernhardus Trevisanus, another 
famous alchemist, even calls Geber an obscurantist and a 
Proteus who promises the kernel and offers the rind. 

The alchemist knows that he writes obscurely. He ad- 
mits that he veils things intentionally, but nowhere — as far 
as my knowledge reaches — says that he is unable to write in 
any other way. He makes a virtue of his necessity by main- 
taining either that he must be secretive for one reason or 
another, or that he wishes to make the truth as clear as pos- 
sible and to tell — not quite above his breath — what the ma- 
teria prima or the lapis is. 

The heavy darkness that covers the chemical operation 
comes from the fact that the alchemist actually takes little 
interest in the purely chemical side, and uses it only to de- 
vise a new nomenclature for the psychic transformations 
that hold a real fascination for him. We could say that every 


original alchemist builds himself a more or less individual 
edifice of thought consisting of the dicta of the philosophers 
and of a combination of analogues to the basic concepts of 
alchemy — analogues that are often fetched from the four 
corners of the earth. There even exist treatises written more 
or less for the purpose of offering the artist building ma- 
terial for analogies. 

The method of alchemy, psychologically regarded, is 
boundless amplification. The amplificatio is always in place 
when a dark experience presents itself — an experience so 
vaguely adumbrated that it must be reinforced and extended 
by drawing upon a psychological context, if it is to be made 
intelligible. This is why, in Analytical Psychology, we resort 
to amplification in the interpretation of dreams, for a dream 
is too shadowy an adumbration to be understood until it is 
enriched through the stuff of association and analogy, and 
is thus amplified to the level of intelligibility. The amplifi- 
catio forms the second part of the work, and is taken by the 
alchemist in the sense of theoria . 2 The theory was originally 
the so-called Hermetic philosophy, but early in the epoch 
preceding the Reformation it was broadened by the assimi- 
lation of ideas taken from Christian dogma. In the earliest 
Occidental alchemy, Hermetic fragments have for the most 
part come down from Arabic originals. A direct contact 
with Hermes Trismegistus was established for the first time 
in the second half of the fifteenth century, when Marsiilio 
Ficino translated the Greek manuscript of the Corpus Her- 
meticum, which was brought at that time to Italy from 

Everything unknown is filled by psychological projec- 
tion: it is as if the investigator’s own psychic depths were 
mirrored in the darkness. What he sees and thinks he recog- 
nizes is, first of all, the facts of his own unconscious. It is 
a relatively simple matter for us, once psychology has sharp- 
ened our insight, to recognize the psychic nature of al- 

208 the integration of the personality 

chemistic symbols and processes. Professor Bernoulli 8 has 
contributed an excellent survey of the psychological mean- 
ing of the most important manifestations of alchemy. It 
is well known that Herbert Silberer, 4 also, at an earlier date, 
succeeded in throwing some light upon the psychological 
content of alchemy. So as not to repeat unnecessarily what 
has been said before, I will call to mind only the essential 
points of the process. 

It begins with an unknown materia prima in the state 
of blackness ( nigredo ) . Next in time comes the union ( con - 
junctio) of contradictory principles, usually designated as 
c? and 9 . There generally follows a disintegration or a death 
{putref actio, mortificatio, calcinatio) ; then the washing off 
{ablutio) that produces the whitening {albedo). Herewith 
a certain result has been attained; there has come into being 
a white stone or a white earth ( terra foliata alba) represent- 
ing a kind of extract or sublimate of the formerly united 
opposites. This, however, is nothing definite as yet, but 
rather a kind of preliminary stage or basis in which the seed 
of a following stage either is potentially present, or is sowed 
or planted. 

The next transformation is the reddening ( rubedo ). 
The white and the red often present themselves as white 
and red roses, or as stones, sulphur, the eagle, etc. Moreover, 
the rubedo is frequently compared to blood, and — when 
it is a stone — to the carbuncle. The latter comparison is 
generally a sign that the climax has been reached. The car- 
buncle is then the red tincture whose projection upon the 
base metals changes these into gold or silver; or it is the 
panacea and the elixir vita. But the reddening is not al- 
ways the culmination of the procedure; not, at any rate, 
when gold is the end in view. In this case the reddening is 
followed by the yellowing ( citrinitas ) , the latter producing 
the coagulated, solid, or fluid gold ( aurum potabile). As a 


variant there is also the vitreous gold ( vitreum aurum) or 
the malleable glass ( vitreum malleabile ) . 

The stone of the philosophers (lapis' philosophorum ) , 
the most prevalent of all alchemistic conceptions, was con- 
ceived either as an instrument or as an absolute end in itself. 
In the first case it may be the red powder or the red tinc- 
ture; but in the second case it is a thoroughly mystical 
being having body, soul, and spirit, and depicted as winged 
or hermaphroditic. 

Analogous to the unknown materia prima, and some- 
times even identical with it, is the so-Called. divine, "eternal” 
water (aqua permanens, t>8wp Oeiov), also described as quick- 
silver (mercurius, argentum vivum) . It plays its mysterious 
part throughout the whole process, at the very outset as 
well as at the very end — this part being essentially instru- 
mental. The same is true of the fire, which is called "our” 
fire (ignis nos ter) , the philosophical or the mercurial fire, 
and which is thus - distinguished from the common one. No 
less significant is the Hermetic vessel (vas Hermetis ) , typi- 
fied by the retorts and crucibles, and regarded as the con- 
tainer of the substances to be transformed. Although it is 
essentially an instrument, it nevertheless has peculiar and 
fundamental relations both to the materia prima and to 
the stone, and so is not a mere piece of apparatus. The pro- 
cedure itself had its partial developments — namely, solu- 
tions and coagulations, sublimations and separations — and 
these were repeated in a cyclic manner, the whole cycle being 
called circulatio, rotatio, or rota (wheel) . 

The outline I have roughly traced above presents a 
more or less superficial view of alchemy as we have com- 
monly come to know it. 

From the standpoint of modern chemistry we are un- 
able to form any picture of alchemy whatsoever; and if 
we turn to the texts with their many hundreds of methods 
and recipes, as these have come down to us from the Middle 


Ages and antiquity, we discover among them relatively few 
containing a recognizable meaning for the chemist. He will 
surely find the majority of them senseless, and furthermore 
no true tincture or artificial gold was ever produced in all 
the many centuries during which men earnestly slaved in 
the laboratories. 

What then — we may well ask — induced the ancient al- 
chemists steadfastly to go on working — or, as they said, "op- 
erating” — and writing further treatises about the "divine” 
art, when their whole undertaking was so impressively hope- 
less? We must add, to be sure, that every insight into the 
nature of chemistry and its limitations was still barred to 
them, so that they were as much entitled to hope as those 
who dreamt of flying — and whose late followers achieved it 
after all. We must not underestimate the satisfaction of the 
undertaking, of the adventure, of the qucerere (search) and 
of the invenire (discovery) . It could last as long as the al- 
chemist’s methods appeared significant to him. Now, there 
was nothing at that time that Could have persuaded him of 
the senselessness of his chemical operations; and, besides, he 
could look back upon a long tradition that bore not a few 
testimonies from those who claimed to have arrived at the 
wonderful result. 8 Nor was the matter entirely without 
promise, since here and there, on the side, a few useful in- 
ventions did emerge from the labours in the chemical labora- 
tory. As a precursor of chemistry, alchemy had a sufficient 
reason for existence. Even if alchemy had consisted of an 
endless series of — let us say — meaningless and fruitless chem- 
ical experiments, we should still have no more cause to won- 
der at the perseverance of the alchemists than at the quixotic 
attempts of mediaeval doctors and pharmacologists. 

The decisive point is, however, that we are called upon 
to deal, not with chemical experimentations as such, but 
with something resembling psychic processes expressed in 
pseudo-chemical language. The ancients knew what chemi- 


cal processes were; therefore, they must have known that 
what they practised was at least no ordinary chemistry. That 
they knew of this difference is shown by the title of a treatise 
of Democritus ascribed to the first century; it reads ri 
<f>v<nn& Kal rd fjLvaTix d. (The Physical and the Philosophical ) . 
And soon after this there arises a wealth of evidence to 
show that, in alchemy, two currents run side by side that to 
our way of thinking are heterogeneous. Alchemy’s tarn 
ethice quam physice (ethical as well as physical) is not in- 
telligible to our thinking. If the alchemist admittedly uses 
the chemical process purely in a symbolical way, then why 
does he work in a laboratory with melting pots and re- 
torts? And if, as he ceaselessly asserts, he describes chemical 
processes, why does he distort them past recognition by 

This riddle has before now caused many an honest and 
well-meaning student of alchemy to cudgel his brains. On 
the one hand, to be sure, the alchemist declares that he con- 
ceals things intentionally in order to prevent wicked or fool- 
ish people from taking possession of the gold and thus caus- 
ing some calamity. On the other hand, he is likely to inform 
us that the sought-for gold is not — as the foolish suppose — 
the common one ( aurum vulgi ) , but rather the philosophi- 
cal gold, or even the wonderful stone, the lapis invisibili- 
tatis (of invisibility), or the lapis cethereus (ethereal), or 
finally the unimaginable, hermaphroditic rebis, and that ab- 
solutely all recipes are to be despised. But on psychological 
grounds it is highly improbable that it was consideration 
for mankind that drove the alchemist to mystification. For 
when something real is discovered it is generally heralded 
aloud. The alchemist Basilius Valentinus gives us the best 
example of this in his Triumphal Car of Antimony . 

The fact is that the alchemists had nothing whatever 
to divulge, and least of all the secret of manufacturing gold. 

Mystification can be pure bluff for the obvious pur- 



pose of exploiting the credulous. That alchemy as a whole 
is to be explained from this angle is contradicted, in my 
opinion, by the fact that not a few detailed, scholarly, and 
conscientious treatises were written and printed anony- 
mously, which therefore could not be of unlawful advan- 
tage to anyone. 

But mystification can also arise from a different source. 
A real secret does not act secretively — it speaks secretively: 
it suggests itself by a variety of images pointing to its ex- 
istence. Now, by this I do not mean a secret personally 
guarded by someone, that has a content known to the pos- 
sessor; but a matter or circumstance that is "secret” — known 
only by intimations — and that is, in its essence, unknown. 
So, for instance, the real nature of matter was unknown 
to the alchemist. He knew it only through intimations. In- 
asmuch as he tried to explore it, he projected the uncon- 
scious into the darkness of matter, to illuminate it. In order 
to explain the mystery of matter, he projected into what 
was to be explained still another mystery, namely, his own 
unknown, psychic substratum: obscurum per obscurius, 
ignotum per ignotius! 

Strictly taken, projection is never made; it happens; 
it is met with. In the darkness of some externality I find, 
without recognizing it as such, a psychic or inner something 
that is my own. Therefore, in my opinion, it would be a 
mistake to assign as the source for the formula torn ethice 
quam physice the doctrine of correspondence. I believe, on 
the contrary, that this doctrine is more probably a rationali- 
zation of the experience of projection. The alchemist does 
not practise his art because he believes on theoretical 
grounds in correspondence; rather, he has a theory of cor- 
respondence because he experiences the presence of the idea 
in the physical order. I am, therefore, inclined to suppose 
that the true root of alchemy is less to be sought in trans- 


milted philosophical views than in certain experiences of 
projection of the individual researchers. 

By this I mean that during the carrying out of the 
chemical experiment the laboratory worker had certain 
psychic* experiences that appeared to him as a particular 
behaviour of the chemical process. Since it is a question of 
projections, it was naturally unknown to him that his ex- 
perience had nothing to do with matter in itself (as we know 
it today). He experienced his projection as a characteristic 
of matter; but what he actually experienced was his own 
unconscious. In this way he retraced the path of man’s de- 
veloping knowledge of nature. As everyone knows, science 
began with the stars, and mankind discovered in them the 
dominants of the unconscious, the so-called gods, as well as 
the curious psychological qualities of the zodiac: a complete 
doctrine of character, wholly projected. Astrology is a 
primeval experience, and so is alchemy. Such projections 
always repeat themselves when man tries to investigate an 
empty darkness and then unwittingly fills it with living 

This being so, I have given my attention to the ques- 
tion of whether the alchemists themselves reported such ex- 
periences in the course of their practice. I had no reason to 
hope for a rich find, since it is a question of experiences that 
are unconscious and therefore unlikely to be reported. As a 
matter of fact, there are some unmistakable accounts in 
the literature. It is significant that the later accounts are 
more detailed and specific than the older ones. 

The most recent account derives from a German trea- 
tise of 173 a, entitled Abtala Jurain, etc. It reads (pp. 52 and 
54 ): 

The Creation. 

**Take a good lot of ordinary rain water, at least ten quarts; pre- 
serve it well sealed in glass vessels at least ten days, then it will stink and 



precipitate faeces. Pour off the clear part and put it in a wooden vessel 
that is fashioned round like a ball; cut it off in the middle and fill a full 
third of the vessel and place it in the sun around midday in a secret or 
remote place. 

"When this has happened, then take a drop of the consecrated red 
wine and let it fall down into the water; then at once thou wilt see a 
mist and a heavy darkness above on the water such as there was also in 
the first creation. Then put in two drops, so wilt thou see the light com- 
ing forth out of the darkness; hereupon little by little put in every 
half quarter hour three then four then five then six drops, and then no 
more, so wilt thou see with thine eyes above on the water bit by bit one 
thing after the other as God created all things in the six days, and how 
it all took place, and such secrets as are not to be spoken aloud and I 
also have not the power to reveal. Fall upon thy knees, before thou 
undertakest this operation. Leu thine eyes judge of it; for thus was the 
world created. Let everything stand as it is, and it will disappear in 
half an hour from the time it began. 

“By this ye will clearly see the mysteries of God that are at present 
hidden from you as from a child. Ye will understand what Moses wrote 
of the creation; ye will see what manner of body Adam and Eve had 
before and after the fall, what was the serpent and what the tree and 
what manner of fruits they ate; where and what Paradise is, and in what 
bodies the righteous will be resurrected, and not in this one that we 
have received from Adam, but rather in the one we have attained through 
the Holy Ghost, such a one, namely, as our Saviour brought from 

The Heavens. 

“Ye shall take seven pieces of metal, of each and every metal as 
they are named after the planets, and shall stamp upon every one of them 
the character of the planet in the house of that same planet, and each 
and every piece shall be as large and thick as a rose noble: but of mer- 
cury take only the fourth part of an ounce by weight and have nothing 
marked upon it. 

“Then put them in the order in which they stand in the heavens 
into a crucible and shut all windows in the chamber that it may be quite 
dark therein; then melt them all together in the midst of the chamber 
and drop therein seven drops of the blessed stone; so forthwith a flame 
of fire will come out of the crucible and spread itself over the entire 


chamber (fear no harm) ; and the whole chamber will shine more 
brightly than sun and moon, and ye will behold above your heads the 
entire firmament, as it is in the starry heavens above, and the planets 
will hold their true courses, as in the sky; let it cease of itself, in a 
quarter of an hour everything will find its own place.” 

We extract another example from a treatise by Theo- 
bald van Hoghelande (sixteenth century) : 

"They say also that different names were given to the stone because 
of the wonderful manifoldness of the figures that appear in the course of 
the work — colours that often spring up at the same time. Sometimes also 
we imagine, as if in clouds or in fire, strange forms of animals, reptiles 
or trees. I found something similar [the author continues] in a book 
ascribed to Moses: when the body is dissolved, it is there written, then 
will appear sometimes two branches, sometimes three or more, sometimes 
also figures of reptiles; occasionally it also appears as if a man with a 
head and all his limbs were seated upon a cathedra.” 

Hoghelande’s statements prove, as do the two preceding 
texts, that, during the practical labour, hallucinatory or 
visionary perceptions took place that can be nothing else 
than projections of unconscious contents. 

A somewhat different aspect of the relation of the 
psychic world to the chemical operation is shown by the 
following citation from the Theatrum Chemicum of 1659: 

M I demand of thee, look with the eyes of the spirit at the shoot of 
the grain of wheat in respect to all its circumstances, that thou mayest 
bring the tree of the philosophers to grow.” 

This seems to point to the active imagination as that 
which actually sets the process going ( promover e ). 

Trithemius, Abbot of Sponheim (about 1500), the al- 
leged teacher of Paracelsus, says: "Out of other things thou 
wilt never make the one, unless first the one arises out of 
thyself.” Whatever the alchemist meant by the "one,” 6 it 
is related to the subject of the "artist,” whose unity is posited 
as an indispensable condition for the completion of the work. 


There is scarcely any doubt that we are dealing here with 
the psychological factors in the work, and that these are 
held to be of fundamental importance. 

The Rosarium Pbilosophorum says: "Who therefore 
knows salt and its solution, he knows the hidden secret of 
the wise men of old. Therefore turn thy mind upon the 
salt, for in it (mind) alone (in ipsa sola, referring to mens) 
is concealed all science and the noblest and most hidden se- 
cret of all the ancient philosophers.” 7 

We would have to assume a twofold typographical error 
in this passage if the secret were really related to the salt. 
Besides, "mind” and "salt” are close cousins (cum grano 
salis!) . 8 The anonymous writer of the Rosarium says in an- 
other place that the work must be performed "with the 
true imagination, and not with the fantastic,” and again 
that the stone will be found "when the search lies heavily 
upon the searcher.” This remark can hardly be understood 
in any other way than as positing certain psychic factors 
as absolute requisites for the discovery of the wonderful 
stone. Thus both remarks make it seem possible that the 
author is actually of the opinion that the essential secret of 
the art is concealed in the human spirit; that, as we would 
put it today, it is in the unconscious. 

The following alchemistic pronouncement agrees fairly 
well with the idea that the work is of a psychological na- 

"Thou seekest hard and findest not. Perhaps thou wilt 
find if thou dost not seek.” 

Such a precept would hardly be to the purpose for the 
synthesis of a chemical substance. 

Not much effort is needed fo.r the beginning of the 
work; it suffices that the student apply himself to it with 
"a free and empty mind,” as a text declares. But observance 
must be paid the important rule that "the mind (mens) is 
in accord with the work, which necessarily surpasses any 


other.” In order to acquire the “golden understanding” 
( aurea apprehensio ) , he must, says another text, open wide 
the eyes of the spirit and of the soul, and contemplate and 
recognize things with the help of the inner light that God 
has kindled from the beginning in nature and in our hearts. 

Now, since the artist’s psyche is closely connected with 
the work, not only as a means, but also as a cause and point 
of departure, we can understand why such a strong em- 
phasis was laid, even in the earliest treatises, upon the spirit- 
ual and mental constitution and attitude of the laboratory 
worker. Thus Alfidius says: "Know that thou canst not pos- 
sess this science if thou dost not cleanse thy mind through 
God, by which is meant that thou purgest thine heart from 
all corruption.” According to the ancient Aurora Consur- 
gens, the treasure house of Hermetic wisdom is built upon 
fourteen cardinal virtues as a foundation; namely, health, 
humility, holiness, chastity, power, victory, faith, hope, love 
(caritas) , kindness ( benignitas ) , patience, moderation, men- 
tal discipline or culture, and obedience. 

The pseudo Thomas of this same treatise mentions a 
citation that reads, "Cleanse the terrible darknesses of our 
spirit,” and as a parallel to it cites the early alchemist Senior 
in a passage where he speaks about nigredo and dealbatio. 
In this way the "darknesses of our spirit” and the nigredo, 
the "blackness,” unmistakably fall together into one; that 
is, the author feels or experiences the opening stage of the 
alchemistic process as coincident or even identical with his 
own psychological condition. 

Another early authority is Geber. In the Liber Perfecti 
Magisterii he demands the following as psychological and 
characterological prerequisites for the ariifex (artist). He 
must have a most subtle mind and possess sufficient knowl- 
edge of the metals and minerals. But he may not have a 
coarse and hard mind, nor may he be greedy and avaricious, 
undecided and vacillating; furthermore, he may not be in 


a hurry nor may he be conceited; on the contrary, he must 
be firmly resolved, tenacious, patient, mild, long-suffering, 
and moderate. 

The author of the Rosarium says that he who wishes 
to be initiated in this art and wisdom must be not arrogant 
but pious, upright, of a deep understanding, affable, of a 
jovial mien and happy disposition. "My son,” he continues, 
"above all I exhort thee to fear God, who knows thy na- 
ture and in whom there is help for every lonely one, who- 
ever he be.” 

The introduction to the art that Morienus imparted 
to Khalid ben Yezid 9 is especially instructive: "For this 
thing that thou hast so long sought for, cannot be acquired 
or accomplished through force or passion. It is only acquired 
through patience and humility and through a determined 
and most perfect love. For God entrusts this divine and 
pure science to his believers and servants, to those, namely, 
to whom he resolved to entrust it from the primal state of 
things. [Here follow a few remarks about transmitting the 
art to pupils.] Nor were they [the elect] able to withhold 
anything of what God had entrusted to them in miraculous 
wise, nor could they themselves, any longer, direct their 
spirits except upon the goal that God had set for them. For 
God supports those of his servants whom he has purposely 
chosen so that they may search for this divine science, which 
is concealed from men, and may keep it to themselves. This 
is namely the science that draws its master [he who prac- 
tises it] away from the misery of this world and leads to the 
knowledge of good things to be. 

"When Morienus was asked by the king [Khalid] why 
he lived in mountains and deserts rather than in hermitages, 
he answered: I do not doubt that in hermitages and brother- 
hoods I would find greater peace, and find painful toil in 
the deserts and mountains, but no one reaps who does not 


sow . . . Most narrow is the entrance to peace, and no one 
can go to it except through suffering of the soul.” 

As to the last sentence, one must not ‘forget that Mori- 
enus is not speaking for general edification, but with a par- 
ticular regard to the divine art and its work. Michael Majer 
expresses himself in a similar way when he says: "In chem- 
istry there is a certain noble substance (lapis) at whose 
beginning misery rules with vinegar, but at whose end glad- 
ness holds sway with joy; and I have assumed that it will 
happen so to me, namely, that I will first suffer difficulty, 
sadness and disgust, but finally will witness all the more 
pleasant and easy things.” 

The same author also testifies that "chemistry excites 
the artifex to meditation on the good things of heaven, and 
that he who is initiated of God in these mysteries casts aside 
all such insignificant cares as food and clothing, and so ap- 
pears to himself as if he were born anew.” 

The difficulty and grief that stand at the beginning of 
the work are again made to coincide with the nigredo , like 
the "terrible darknesses of the spirit” of which the Aurora 
Consurgens speaks; and these, again, are no doubt the same 
as the afflictio animce, the suffering of the soul, to which 
Morienus points. The expression with which he characterizes 
the attitude of the adept, amor perfectissimus , voices an ex- 
traordinary surrender to the work. If this seria meditatio 
(serious concentration) upon the work is not mere bragging 
— -a supposition for which, indeed, we have no grounds — 
then we must surely conceive of these ancient adepts as pur- 
suing their labours with unusual concentration, even with 
religious fervour. 

Such devotion and self-sacrifice is, of course, especially 
fitted to project values and meanings into the object of the 
research, and to fill it with forms and figures that have their 
primary source in the unconscious of the investigator. 

This interpretation is favoured by the curious and sig- 



nificant way in which the alchemists use the expressions 
meditatio and imaginatio. Ruland’s Lexicon Alchemice, 
which dates from 1612, defines meditatio as follows: “The 
word meditatio is used when one has an inner dialogue with 
someone who is invisible, as also with God, when he is in- 
voked, or with oneself, or with one’s good angel.” 

This “inner dialogue” is a well-known matter to us 
psychologists, for it is an essential part of the coming to 
terms with the unconscious. 10 Ruland’s definition proves 
beyond all doubt that, when the alchemists speak of medi- 
tariy they in no way mean a mere cogitation, but rather an 
inner dialogue, and therefore a living relation to the an- 
swering voice of the “other” in us, that is, the unconscious. 
And so when the Hermetic dictum, "And as all things come 
from the One through meditation of the One,” employs the 
notion of meditation, it must, no doubt, be understood in 
this alchemistic sense of a creative dialogue by means of 
which things pass from an unconscious and potential state 
into a manifest one. Thus we read in a treatise of Philalethes: 
"Wonderful above all is it that our stone, howsoever it is 
already perfect and able to impart a perfect tincture, of its 
own free choice does humble itself again and will contem- 
plate a new volatility apart from all manipulation.” What is 
meant by a meditated volatility we learn a few lines below, 
where it says: “Of its own accord it will liquefy . . . and 
by God’s command become endowed with spirit, which will 
fly upward and take the stone with it.” 11 Again, therefore, 
to meditate means that, this time through a dialogue with 
God, additional spirit is contributed to the stone — which is 
to say, it is still further spiritualized, volatilized, or sub- 

So, also, the above-mentioned meditatio cxlestium 
bonorum must be understood in the sense of a living dialectic 
relation to certain dominants of the unconscious. We find 
this pointedly corroborated in a treatise by an anonymous 


French alchemist who belonged to the seventeenth and eight- 
eenth centuries. He says verbatim: "How often did I see 
them (the sac er dotes /. Egyptiorum ) overcome by joy at my 
understanding, how they most affectionately kissed me, for 
the true grasp of the ambiguities of a paradoxical doctrine 
was easily opened to me. How often did they let their pleas- 
ure in my beautiful discoveries concerning the figures of 
the intricate wisdom of old move them to show mine eyes 
and fingers the Hermetic vessel, the salamander, the full 
moon, and the rising sun.” 

Although this is no confession, but a picture of the 
golden age of alchemy, still it shows how the alchemist repre- 
sented to himself the psychological nature of his work. The 
relation to the invisible powers of the psyche constituted 
the actual secret of the magistery. To give expression to this 
secret, the ancient masters readily resorted to the allegorical 
legend. One of the oldest monuments of this genre, and one 
which exerted a strong influence upon the later literature, 
is the Visio Arislei, which in its whole make-up is closely 
related to the series of visions known to us from the psy- 
chology of the unconscious. 

I have mentioned before that, like the meditatio , so 
also the concept of imaginatio is of particular significance 
in the alchemistic work. We have already become acquainted 
with that remarkable passage in the Rosarium from which 
we learned that the work must be done with the right im- 
agination, and we were likewise taught by another citation 
how, through contemplation, the tree of philosophy is made 
to grow. And now Ruland’s dictionary helps us further to 
understand what imaginatio represents for the alchemist. 
For Ruland says, "Imagination is the star in man, the celes- 
tial or supercelestial body.” This surprising definition throws 
a very particular light upon the fantasy processes connected 
with the opus: we must by no means conceive of them as the 
immaterial phantoms that we readily take fantasy pictures 


to be, but rather as something corporeal, as forming a 
"subtle body” of a semi-spiritual nature. 

Such a concretization must necessarily predominate 
in an age when there was as yet no empirical psychology, for 
everything unconscious, inasmuch as it was activated, was 
projected upon corporeal things — that is, confronted the hu- 
man being from without. It was in a sense a spiritual-physi- 
cal hybrid, a concretization of the kind that one meets with 
very frequently in the study of the primitive mind. The 
imaginatiOy or the act of imagining, is thus a physical ac- 
tivity that may be intercalated in the cycle of corporeal 
transformations — that brings these about and is brought 
about by them. In this way the alchemist related himself 
not only to the unconscious, but also directly to matter, in 
which he could hope to induce transformations through 
the power of imagination. 

The peculiar expression astrum (star) is an alchemistic 
term that approximately means quintessence. Imaginatio is 
thus a concentrated extract of the forces of life, corporeal 
as well as psychic. The alchemist’s requirement that the 
artist must have a sound physical constitution is understand- 
able in this light, for he works with and through his own 
quintessence, and so inevitably conditions his own experi- 
ments. Just because of the intermixture of the physical and 
the psychic, a doubt remains as to whether the final trans- 
formations in the alchemistic process are to be sought for 
more in the material, or more in the spiritual, realm. But 
actually this question is wrongly put: no either-or existed 
for that age, but an intermediate realm between matter 
and mind, a psychic realm of subtle bodies to which a men- 
tal as well as a material manifestation was suitable. This is 
the only view of the question that helps us to grasp al- 
chemistic ways of thought; on any other, they appear 

Obviously, the intermediary realm of subtle bodies 


ceases to exist as soon as one seeks to investigate matter in 
and for itself, apart from all projections; and it remains 
non-existent as long as one believes oneself in possession of 
final knowledge about matter and the soul. But in an age 
when physics touches upon a realm “where no one has trod, 
or may tread,” and when psychology must recognize that 
there are forms of psychic existence apart from the acqui- 
sitions of the personal consciousness — in other words, when 
it likewise touches upon an impenetrable darkness — then the 
intermediary realm may come to life again, and the physical 
and psychic be once again blended into one, and inseparable. 
We have today come very near to this turning. 

These, and similar, reflections are unavoidable if we 
wish in some measure to understand the peculiar conceptual 
language of alchemy. To speak of the “error of alchemy” 
has become today not only somewhat outdated, but a sign 
of intellectual poverty. There are very modern problems in 
alchemy, but they fall within another realm than that of 

The concept of imaginatio is perhaps the most im- 
portant key to the understanding of the alchemistic opus. 
The anonymous author of the treatise De Sulpbure speaks 
of the imaginative faculty of the soul in that passage where 
he meant to do just what the ancients had failed to do, that 
is, give a clear indication of the secret of the art. The soul, 
he says, stands in the place of God (sui locum tenens seu vice 
Rex est) , and inhabits the life spirit in the pure blood. It 
rules the consciousness (mens) , and this rules the body. The 
soul functions (operatur) in the body, but has' the greater 
part of its function ( operatio ) outside of the body. (We 
may add by way of explanation: in projection.) This pe- 
culiarity is divine. For divine wisdom is only in part en- 
closed within the body of the world; for the greater part it 
is outside, and imagines far higher things than the body of 
the world can grasp ( concipere ) ; and these are outside of 


nature — God’s own secrets. The soul is an example of this; 
it, too, imagines many things of the utmost profundity 
(profundissima) outside the body, as God does. To be sure, 
what the soul imagines happens only in the mind; but what 
God imagines happens in reality. 

"The soul, however, has the absolute and independent 
power ( absolutam et se par at am potestatem) to do things 
that differ {alia facere) from those the body can grasp. But 
it has, when it wishes, the greatest power over the body ( po- 
testatem in corpus ) , for otherwise our philosophy would be 
in vain. . . . Thou canst grasp far greater matters, since we 
have truly opened the doors for thee.” 

This argument by the anonymous philosopher gives us 
some valuable insights into the manner of thought of the 
alchemists. The soul, in this text, is obviously an anima 
corporalis that inhabits the blood. It would, therefore, cor- 
respond to the unconscious, if this is taken as the psychic 
event that mediates between consciousness and the physio- 
logical functioning of the body. In the scheme of the 
chakras , 12 this anima would be located below the diaphragm. 
But, on the other hand, it is also God’s lieutenant or viceroy, 
ajid the analogue of the Deus Creator. 

There are people who have never been able to under- 
stand the unconscious except as the subconscious, and who 
always feel the need of putting a superconscious by its side — 
or, if possible, above it. Such concessions to spiritual weak- 
ness do not trouble our philosophers; they taught that every 
elementary form of existence contains its inner contradic- 
tion, a doctrine by which they have long ago anticipated 
the problem of opposites as Analytical Psychology conceives 
it. Our author has something to say about the element, air, 
that is important in this connection, and particularly so 
in connection with the subject of this essay. "The air,” he 
tells us, "is a pure, uncorrupted element, in its kind the 
most worthy, uncommonly light and invisible, but heavy. 


visible, and firm within. Enclosed in it ( inclusus ) is the spirit 
of the Highest, which, before the Creation, hovered over 
the waters according to the testimony of Holy Writ: 'And 
he flew upon the wings of the wind.’ In this element all 
things are integrated ( integrx ) through the imagination of 
the fire:” 

To understand such a pronouncement, we must ob- 
viously dismiss all modern conceptions of the constitution of 
a gas, and take it as a purely psychological statement. So 
understood, it deals with the projection of pairs of opposites 
such as light-heavy, visible-invisible, etc. Now, the identity 
of the opposites is the characteristic of every psychic event 
that is unconscious. So the anima corporalis is at the same 
time spiritualis, and the firm and heavy kernel of air is at the 
same time the spiritus creator that hovers over the waters. 
And as in the creative spirit "the images of all creation” are 
contained, so also are all things imagined or "pictured” in 
the air through the power of fire: this is so, on the one hand, 
because fire surrounds the throne of God, and because out of 
it are created — or "imagined” — the angels and all other liv- 
ing beings in descending rank and qualities through infusion 
of the fiery anima in the life-air; 13 and it is so, also, because 
fire destroys all that is composite, and restores its images to 
the air again in the smoke. 

Now, the soul, our author says, is only in part confined 
to the body, as God, also, is only in part enclosed in the body 
of the world. If we strip this statement of its metaphysics, it 
declares that the psyche is only in part identical with our 
conscious being, while for the rest it is in the state of projec- 
tion, and in this state imagines or pictures those larger things 
that the body cannot grasp — which is to say, cannot bring 
to actuality. This "larger” ( majora ) corresponds to the 
"higher” ( altiora ) of the all-creative imagination of God; 
but this "higher,” because it is imagined by God, becomes at 
once substantial, instead of lingering in a state of potential 

226 the integration of the personality 

reality, like the contents of the unconscious. That the alche- 
mistic opus is such an activity of the psyche extra corpus 
comes out clearly from the remark that the soul has the 
greatest power over the body,, and that, if this were not so, 
the royal art or philosophy would amount to nothing. "You 
are able,” says the author, "to grasp ( concipere ) the larger 
things”; therefore, your body can actualize them — of course, 
with the help of the art and with God’s permission ( Deo 
concedente) , this being a fixed formula of alchemy. 

The imaginatio , as the alchemists understood it, is in 
truth a key that opens the door to the secret of the opus. 
We now know that it is a question of picturing and actual- 
izing those "larger” things that the anima, on God’s behalf, 
prese nts creatively and extra naturam ; or — putting it in 
modern language — actualizing those contents of the uncon- 
scious 14 that are beyond nature — that is, not given in our 
empirical world, and therefore constituting an a priori of 
archetypal nature. The place, or the medium, of the actual- 
ization is neither matter nor spirit, but the intermediate 
realm of subtle actuality for which the symbol is the only 
adequate expression. The symbol is neither abstract nor con- 
crete, neither rational nor irrational, neither real nor unreal. 
It is always both — it is non vulgi, the aristocratic affair of 
one who is set apart, cujuslibet sequestrati, chosen and pre- 
destined by God from the very beginning. 

The title-page vignette of the Tripus Aureus of 1677 
clearly portrays the double face of alchemy already adum- 
brated in this chapter. The picture (Plate VI) is divided 
into two parts: on the right is a laboratory where a man 
clothed only in trunks is busy at the fire; on the left is a 
library in which a bishop, a philosopher, and a man of the 
world, probably a doctor, confer together. But in the centre, 
upon the furnace, rises the tripod with the flask in which 
appears the winged dragon. The dragon symbolizes the ex- 
perience, the vision of the alchemist who works in the labora- 


tory and "theorizes.” 15 The dragon as such is a monstrum — 
a symbol combining the earth-principle of the serpent and 
the air-principle of the bird. But Mercury is the divine, 
winged Hermes, the ancient god of revelation and the fore- 
most psychopomp, appearing in ponderable matter. The 
heavy metal quicksilver, the argentum vivum y was the won- 
derful substance that perfectly expressed the nature of the 
(nVkfiuv, that which glistens and animates from within. 
When the alchemist speaks of M ercurius, he explicitly means 
quicksilver, but implicitly the divine and all-creating spirit 
concealed in matter. The dragon is probably the oldest pic- 
tured symbol known to us in alchemistic texts. It appears as 
the ovpo(3opbs , the tail eater, in the Codex Marcianus (Plate 
VII) belonging to the tenth or eleventh century, accom- 
panied by the legend: Iv rb iravi the One, the All. 

The alchemists declare again and again that the opus 
emerges from one thing and leads back again to the One; it 
is thus in a certain sense a circle like a dragon that bites itself 
in the tail. For this reason the work is often called circulare , 
circular, or else the rota , the wheel. Mercury stands at the 
beginning and at the end of the work. He is the materia 
prima y the caput corvi , the nigredo; as the dragon he devours 
himself, and as the dragon he dies and is resurrected in the 
form of the lapis . He is the play of colour of the peacock’s 
tail, cauda pavonis , and the separation of the four elements. 
He is the hermaphrodite of incipient being who divides into 
two in the classic dualism of brother-sister, and unices in the 
conjunction to appear again at the end in the radiant form of 
the lumen novum y the stone. He is metal and yet fluid, mat- 
ter and yet spirit, cold but fiery, poison but also the healing 
draught — a symbol that unites the opposites. 1 * 

All these conceptions were the common property of 
alchemy from the beginning. Zosimus, who belonged to the 
third century, cites in his writing About Virtue and Inter- 
pretation one of the oldest authorities in alchemy, Ostanes, 


an author whose place is on the very frontier of the historical 
period, and who was known even to Pliny. The relation of 
Ostanes to one of the first alchemistic authors, Democritus, 
falls within the first century before Christ. This Ostanes is 
supposed to have said the following: "Go to the streams of 
the Nile and there thou wilt find a stone that has a spirit 
( Trvevfxa ). Take this, divide it, and reach with thy hand 
into its inner parts and draw out its heart; for its soul 
( 'I'VXV ) is in its heart.” An interpolating commentator re- 
marks to this: "Thou wilt there, he says, find this stone that 
has a spirit, which refers to the expulsion of the quicksilver 
(tl-udpapybpuais ) .” 

When Nietzsche uses, in his Z arathustra, the emphatic 
metaphor, "For me an image slumbers in the stone,” he is no 
doubt saying the same thing, but in the reverse order. In the 
time of Zosimus the world of matter was filled by the pro- 
jection into it of a psychic mystery, which appeared as the 
mystery of matter from then on until the decline of alchemy 
in the eighteenth century. But Nietzsche’s ecstatic intuition 
wished to snatch the secret of the superman from the very 
stone in which, until then, it had slumbered. It was in the 
shape of this image that he wished to create the superman 
whom we may well call, in the language of the classical 
world, the divine man. 

The alchemists went the other way about: they sought 
the wonderful stone that harboured a pneumatic essence in 
order to win from it the substance that penetrates all bodies 
(because, indeed, this substance is the "spirit” that has pene- 
trated the stone) and changes the common matter into noble 
by tinting it another colour. This "spirit-substance” is like 
quicksilver that lurks unseen within the ore, and that must 
first be expelled if one wishes to recover it in pure form. But 
if one holds this penetrating mercury, then one can "project” 
it upon other substances and bring them from an imperfect 
to the perfect state. The imperfect state is like the state of 



sleep; bodies lie in it like "the sleepers chained in Hades,” 
and they are awaked as from death to a new and more beau- 
tiful life by the divine tincture extracted from the spirit- 
filled stone. It is quite clear that we observe here a tendency 
to locate the mystery of psychic transformation in matter, 
and to use it at the same time as a theoretical guide for 
effecting chemical transformations. 

Nietzsche has carefully seen to it that no one could take 
the Superman for the spiritual and moral ideal. The alche- 
mist similarly emphasizes the point that the tincture, or 
divine water, not only performs beneficent works of heal- 
ing and ennoblement, but acts as a fatal poison that pene- 
trates other bodies as deeply as it penetrates its own (which 
is to say, as the irvevpa its stone) . 

Zosimus is a Gnostic who is influenced by Hermes. In 
his advice to Theosebeia he recommends the "Krater” as a 
means of transformation: she should hasten to the Poiman- 
dres in order to be baptized in the Krater. 

This Krater refers to the divine vessel of which Hermes 
speaks to Thoth in the treatise named 6 Kparrjp. After the 
creation of the world, God sent this vessel down to earth as 
a kind of baptismal font, having previously filled it with 
vovs (Trvtvp.a.) . Herewith God gave to human beings who 
wished to free themselves from their natural (imperfect, 
dormant) state of avoia (we should say: insufficient con- 
sciousness) an opportunity to baptize themselves in vovs 
and thus to share in the higher state of ivvoia (enlighten- 
ment, higher consciousness) . The vods is, therefore, a kind 
of flcuptiov, dyestuff, or tincture, that ennobles ignoble sub- 
stances. Its role corresponds exactly to that of the tincturing 
stone extract, which can also be a irvevpa, and which, in 
the form of Mercury, possesses the Hermetic double sig- 
nificance of redeeming psychopomp 17 and quicksilver. 

It is, therefore, sufficiently clear that Zosimus possessed 
a kind of mystic or Gnostic philosophy whose basic ideas he 


projected upon matter. When we speak of psychological 
projection we must, as I have already pointed out, always 
remember the fact that projection is a pre-conscious process 
that works only as long as it has not yet become conscious. 
Zosimus is convinced, like all other alchemists, not only that 
his philosophy can be applied to matter, but that processes 
take place in matter that correspond in meaning to his 
philosophical assumptions. For that reason we must suppose 
that he experienced, with regard to matter itself, an identity 
of the events in his own psyche with the behaviour of mat- 
ter. Since his experience of this identity is pre-conscious, 
Zosimus is no more able than the others to make any pro- 
nouncement concerning it. He simply comes up against it, 
and it serves as a bridge, binding psychic and material events 
into one, so that “what is within is also without.” 

An unconscious happening that is not grasped by con- 
sciousness nevertheless portrays itself somehow and some- 
where — for instance, in dreams, visions, and fantasies. The 
idea of the pneuma as the Son of God descending into mat- 
ter and later freeing himself from it, in order to bring 
healing and salvation to all souls, bears the traits of an un- 
conscious mental content projected into matter. Such a 
content is an autonomous complex leading an independent 
existence, divorced from consciousness, in the psychic non- 
ego, and projecting itself whenever it is constellated in any 
way — which is to say, whenever it is attracted by analogies 
to external things. 

The psychic autonomy of the pneuma, or vovs , 18 is 
attested in the Neo-Pythagorean literature; according to the 
view there expressed, the soul was devoured by matter and 
only the understanding, . the vovs,, was left. But the vovs is 
outside of man — he is his demon. One could hardly formu- 
late his autonomy more aptly. This vovs is, no doubt, identi- 
cal with the God Anthropos: he appears beside the Demiurge, 
but is an opponent of the planetary spheres. He rends the 


cifcle of the spheres and stoops to earth. and water (that is, 
he is about to project himself into the elements) . His shadow 
falls upon the earth, but his image is reflected in the water. 
This image inflames the love of the elements, and he himself 
is so charmed with the mirrored reflection of divine beauty 
that he would gladly take up his abode within it. But he has 
scarcely descended when Physis, or physical nature, embraces 
him with passionate love. From this embrace arise the seven 
first hermaphroditic beings . 19 The number seven Clearly 
refers to the planets, and thus to the metals. 

It is in such visionary images (the Anthropos descries 
his own mirrored image) that an unconscious happening — 
here the projection of an autonomous content — expresses 
itself. So these mythical pictures resemble dreams, which 
inform us not only of the fact that a projection has taken 
place, but also about what has been projected. In the epoch 
with which we are dealing it was the divine demon vovs , 
the God-man, the pneuma, etc., that were projected. In so 
far as the viewpoint of Analytical Psychology is realistic and 
bases itself upon the assumption that psychic contents are 
existences, the above-named symbols stand for an uncon- 
scious component of the personality to which one might 
attribute a higher form of consciousness as well as a super- 
iority to common humanity. 

As an empirical fact, such figures always express super- 
ior insights or qualities that are not yet conscious, and that 
also raise the question of whether or not they may be ascribed 
to the personal psyche. The problem of ascribing them to a 
given source may appear a captious one to the layman, but 
in practical work is of great importance. Indeed, an incorrect 
ascription may cause dangerous inflations, which seem of no 
importance to the layman pnly because he does not know 
what misfortunes they cause to human beings and their 

As a matter of fact, we are dealing here with a content 


that up to the present has rarely been ascribed to the human 
personality. The one great exception is Christ. As uids roO 
i.v6pwnov, the Son of Man, and also as 6eov vlbs, the Son 
of God, he realizes the God-man; while as incarnation of the 
Logos through his pneumatic procreation, he is also a mani- 
festation of the divine vovs. Thus the Christian projection 
involves the unknown in man, or the unknown man, who 
thus becomes the bearer of "the terrible and astounding 

Pagan projection, on the contrary, goes beyond man 
and concerns the unknown in the material world, the un- 
known substance, which in some way, like the chosen man, 
is filled with God. And as, in Christianity, the Godhead con- 
ceals itself in the man of low degree, so in the "philosophy” 
it hides itself in the unseemly stone. While in the Christian 
projection the descensus spiritus sancti stops at the living 
body of the Chosen One, who is at once true man and true 
God, in alchemy the descent goes on down into the darkness 
of lifeless matter, whose lower parts, according to the Neo- 
Pythagorean view, are ruled by Evil. Evil and matter to- 
gether form the dyad (duality) . This is of feminine nature, 
an anima mundi, the female Physis, who, after the embrace 
of the One, the Monad, longs for the good and the perfect. 
The gnosis of Justin presents her as Edem, virgin above and 
serpent below. Revengefully she strives against the Tvevpa 
because, in the guise of the second form of God, the Demi- 
urge, it had faithlessly abandoned her. But she is "the divine 
soul (ypvxfl) imprisoned in the elements” who is to be lib- 

Now, since all these mythical pictures present a drama 
of the human psyche on the yonder side of consciousness, we 
see that man is the one who is to be redeemed, as well as the 
redeemer. The first formulation is the Christian one, the 
second the alchemistic. In the first case man ascribes to him- 



self the need of salvation and leaves the work of salvation 
(the actual &6Xou or opus) to the autonomous divine figure; 
in the last case man takes upon himself the duty of carrying 
out the work of redemption, and ascribes to matter in gen- 
eral the state of suffering and the need for redemption. 

In both cases redemption is a work. In Christianity it is 
the life and death of the God-man, which, as a unique 
sacrifice, bring about the reconciliation of man, who craves 
redemption and is lost in materiality, with God. The mythi- 
cal operation of the self-sacrifice of the God-man extends, 
in the usual acceptance, to all men, although it is effective 
only for those who submit through faith or are selected by 
divine grace; but furthermore, in the Pauline acceptance, it 
operates as an apocatastasis for extrahuman creation in gen- 
eral, which, in its imperfect state, awaits redemption like 
the merely natural man. By a certain "synchronism” of 
events, man, as the bearer of a soul submerged in the world 
(in the flesh) , is potentially put into contact with God at 
the moment when He, as Mary’s son, is incarnated in her, 
the virgo terra and the representative of matter in the high- 
est form; and man is potentially redeemed at the moment 
when the eternal Son of God returns to the Father after 
suffering the crucifixion. 

The ideology of this mystery is anticipated in the myth 
cycles of Osiris, Orpheus, Dionysus, and Heracules, as also in 
the Messianic conception in Hebrew prophecy. 20 Such an- 
ticipations can be found even in the primitive hero myths 
where the overcoming of death plays an important role. 21 

The projections upon Attis and Mithras, more or less 
contemporary to the alchemistic projection, are also worth 
mentioning. The Christian projection differs from all these 
manifestations of the mystery of redemption and trans- 
formation by reason of the historic and personal figure of 
the Rabbi Jesus. The mythical happening incarnated itself 

234 THE integration of the personality 

in him and so entered the realm of world history as a unique 
historical and mystic event. 

In the God-hero the Godhead itself labours because of 
its imperfect an^ suffering creation; it takes upon itself the 
state of suffering, and by this sacrificial act accomplishes the 
opus magnum, the a.6\ov of healing and of the conquest of 
death. The human being can actually do- nothing decisive in 
this matter; he looks to his Redeemer full of faith and con- 
fidence, and tries in his way, by a fitting moral attitude, at 
least to put no obstacles in the way of the Saviour’s work of 

We would have to be satisfied with this bare fact were 
it not for the existence of the church. But the institution of 
the church means nothing less than a constantly active con- 
tinuation of the life of Christ and its sacrificial function. 
Christ’s sacrifice, the accomplishment of salvation, con- 
stantly repeats itself in the officium divinum, or, as the Bene- 
dictines would say, in the opus divinum, while still remaining 
the unique sacrifice that was performed by Christ himself as 
a temporal fact. Outside the time order it is constantly 
performed anew. This opus supernatural is presented in the 
sacrificial Mass. To a certain extent the priest presents the 
mystic act in the ritual, but the really active force is Christ 
who sacrifices himself constantly and everywhere. His sacri- 
ficial death had its place in the temporal order, and yet is an 
extratemporal event, as the holy Ambrosius formulates it: 
umbra in lege, imago in evangelio, veritas in ccelestibus. 

According to the view of Thomas Aquinas, the sacrifi- 
cial Mass is not a true immolatio (sacrifice) of the body of 
Christ, but a representative picture of the sacrificial death. 
This interpretation would be sufficient and consistent if 
there were no transformation of the offered elements, the 
bread and wine. But this offering is supposed to be a sacri- 
ficium, literally a making sacred. The etymology of the 
German word for sacrifice, Opfer, seems to be obscure, for 


*3 5 

it is a question whether it comes from offerre, to offer, or 
from operariy to effect, to be active. In the classical usage, 
operari deo meant to serve the god or to offer him a sacrifice. 
But if an Opfer is an opus , then it is far more than an 
oblatiOy the offering of so modest a gift as bread and wine. 
It must be an effectual act that lends a causal significance to 
the ritualistic words of the priest. The words of consecration 
(qui pridie quaui pateretur , etc.) are, therefore, to be taken 
not as merely representing the transformation, but as its 
true causa efficiens . That is why the Jesuit Lessius (died 
1623) called the words of consecration the "sword” with 
which the sacrificial lamb is slaughtered. 

The so-called theory of mactation (slaughtering for 
sacrificial purposes) occupies quite an important place in 
the literature of the Mass, although it has not always been 
tolerated in its more objectionable outgrowths. Surely the 
clearest of all is the Greek rite as it is described by Arch- 
bishop Nicholas Cabasilas of Thessalonica, who died about 
1363. In the first (preparatory) part of the Mass, the bread 
and wine do not lie upon the main altar, but upon the 
7 rpdOeoiSy a kind of sideboard. There the priest cuts a piece 
from the body of the bread, and the appropriate text is: 
"As a lamb he was led to the shambles.” Then he lays it upon 
the table, and the text runs: "The lamb of God is sacrificed.” 
Then a sign of the cross is imprinted in the bread, and a small 
lance is stabbed into its side, to the text: "But one of the 
soldiers with a spear pierced his side and forthwith came 
there out blood and water.” With these words water and 
wine are mixed in. the chalice. Then comes the oblation in a 
solemn procession, the priest carrying the offering (Cabasilas 
says) "as kings, when they bring a gift to God, bear it them- 
selves and do not let it be borne by others.” (The S&povy the 
gift, represents the giver, which means that Christ as sacri- 
ficer is also the sacrificed.) 

So the priest repeats the traditional event, and in so far 



as Christ, in the sacramental state, possesses a vita corporea 
actualis, a true bodily life, one could say that a physical 
slaying ( mortificatio ) of his body takes place. This happens 
through the effect of the words of " consecration spoken by 
the priest. By the destruction of the offering, and by the 
oblatio occisi ad cultum Dei (the offering of the slain to the 
service of God) , the transformation, the transubstantiation 
comes about. The transformation is a transmutation of the 
elements, which, from a natural, tainted, imperfect, and 
material state, change into a subtle body. The bread, which 
must consist of wheat, signifies the body, and the wine, 
standing for blood, the soul. A piece of the host is mixed 
with the wine after the transformation, and in this way the 
conjunctio of the soul with the body — the living body of 
Christ, which is to say, the unity of the church — is restored. 

The holy Ambrose named the altered bread medicina. 
It is the <Pa.ppa.KOv adavaalas, the drug of immortality, 
which displays its characteristic effect upon the believer in 
the act of communion — the effect, namely, of uniting the 
body with the soul. But this takes place in the form of a 
healing of the soul ( et sanabitur anima mea) and a reforma- 
tion of the body {et mirabilius reformasti). The text of the 
Mass shows in what way this is intended: "Grant unto us 
through the mystery of this water and this wine to partake 
of the divinity of him who held himself worthy to partake 
of our humanity, Jesus Christ,” etc. 

Perhaps you will allow me to introduce a personal re- 
mark. It was a real discovery for me, a Protestant, to read 
the words of the offertory for the firsf time: Deus, qui 
humance substantia; dignitatem mirabiliter condidisti (O 
Lord, thou who didst miraculously create the dignity of 
human substance) and qui humanitatis nostree fieri dignatus 
est particeps (who held himself worthy to partake of our 
humanity) . What respect for the worth of human nature! 
Deus et homol There is here no reminder of that worthless 



sinner in whose disparagement Protestantism has so often 
taken pleasure, and to which it returns all too gladly and 
easily. But even more seems to be hidden in this somewhat 
transcendental valuation of man. For if God is dignatus to 
partake of human nature, then man also might think him- 
self worthy of partaking of divine nature. In a certain sense 
the priest does so in performing the mystery of the offering, 
when he presents himself as the victim in the place of Christ; 
and the congregation does likewise when it eats the conse- 
crated body, and so partakes of the divine substance. 

Since the priest has a causative part in the transforma- 
tion, he releases the creature within the bread and wine from 
its elemental imperfection. He therefore not only stands in 
the place of the redeemer, but is himself a redeemer. And at 
this point the whole problem of redemption is reversed. It is 
not man who is in need of redemption, but matter, in which 
the divine soul is imprisoned in a sleeping and confined con- 
dition. Matter, which contains the divine mystery, is every- 
where, and also in the human body. It is easily had, and is 
found everywhere — even in the most horrible filth. 

In this respect, the opus magnum is no longer a ritual- 
istic officinm, but rather the work of redemption that God 
himself performed for mankind through Christ, as an ex- 
ample, and that is recognized as his own individual work by 
the philosopher who has received the donum spiritus sancti , 
the divine art. The alchemists emphasize this point: “He who 
works through the spirit of another and through a paid hand 
will behold results that are far from the truth; and con- 
trariwise, he who gives his services to another as a journey- 
man in the laboratory will never be admitted to the mysteries 
of the Queen.” One could cite here the words of Cabasilas: 
“As kings, when they bring a gift to God, bear it them- 
selves, and do not let it be borne by others.” 

As a matter of fact, the alchemists are decided solitaries; 
each says his own word in his own way. They rarely have 


pupils, and there seems to have been very little direct tradi- 
tion; nor have any secret societies or the like been shown to 
exist. Each worked in his laboratory for himself, and suffered 
from his loneliness. On the other hand, they did not combat 
one another: their writings are remarkably free from 
polemic, and the way in which they quote one another 
demonstrates an astonishing agreement in principles, even 
when we are frequently unable to recognize in what it is 
that they actually agree. There is not a trace of the disputa- 
tiousness arid hairsplitting that so often mar theology and 
philosophy. The reason for this is probably to be found in 
the circumstance that true alchemy was never a business or 
a career, but a real opus that a man carried on in silent, self- 
sacrificing labour. The impression is given that each has 
tried for himself to give expression to his particular experi- 
ence and to adduce for this purpose those dicta of the masters 
that seemed to have a similar content. 

From the very earliest times they all agree that their 
art is sacred and divine, and likewise that their work can be 
accomplished only with the help of God. This science of 
theirs is given only to the few and no man understands it 
unless God or a master has opened his mind. Furthermore, he 
may not impart the acquired discernment to others unless 
they are worthy of such knowledge. Since all the essential 
matters are expressed in metaphors, he can communicate 
them only to the intelligent, who possess the gift of under- 
standing. The foolish allow themselves to be deluded by 
literal interpretations and recipes, and so fall into error. As 
to the study of the treatises, the alchemist is warned that he 
must not be satisfied with one book; he must possess many 
books, for "one book opens another.” Moreover, he must 
read carefully, from paragraph to paragraph; then he will 
make discoveries. The terms are admittedly quite undepend- 
able. Occasionally a dream tells which is the sought-for 
substance. The materia lapidis can be found by divine in- 



spiration. The practice of the art is a hard road, and the 
longest road. The art has no enemies except the ignorant. 

It goes without saying that there' are good and bad 
authors in alchemistic literature, as in all others. There exist 
also spectacular works as well as crazy and deceitful ones. 
Such inferior writings are easily detected by their abundant 
recipes, their careless and unrefined composition, their ob- 
trusive mystification, their terrible dullness, and their shame- 
less insistence upon the manufacture of gold. Good books 
are recognized by the industry, the care, and the obvious 
mental integrity of the author. 

The basis of the work, the materia prima, is one of the 
most famous secrets of alchemy. This secrecy is not surpris- 
ing, since the materia prima represents matter, which is 
unknown and carries the projection of the autonomous 
psychic content. It was, of course, impossible to specify such 
a substance, because the projection derives from the indi- 
vidual, and is different for each individual. For this reason 
it is not correct to say that the alchemists have never stated 
what the materia prima is; on the contrary, they have given 
only too many hints, and so have unceasingly contradicted 
themselves. For one it was quicksilver; for others it was ore, 
iron, gold, lead, salt, sulphur, vinegar, water, air, fire, earth, 
blood, water of life, lapis, poison, .spirit, cloud, sky, dew, 
shadow, sea, mother, moon, dragon, Venus, chaos, or micro- 
cosm. Ruland’s Lexicon gives not less than fifty synonyms, 
and this list might be considerably increased. 

The materia prima always has the quality of ubiquity; 
it can be found always and everywhere — which is to say, 
that the projection can always and everywhere come about. 
Sir George Ripley, the English alchemist (1415 ?-i49o) , 
says: "The philosophers tell the enquirer that birds and fishes 
bring us the lapis; 22 every man possesses it, it is in every 
place, in thee, in me, in every thing, in time and in space.” 
It offers itself in lowly form ( vili figura ) . From it arises our 

240 THE integration of the personality 

eternal water ( aqua permanens). According to Ripley, the 
materia prima is water; it is the material principle of all 
substances, even of mercury. It is the Aristotelian hyle, or 
that which receives form or determination, and which ema- 
nated from chaos as a dark sphere 23 (sphcericum opus ) 
through the creative act of God. Chaos is a "confused mass” 
out of which the stone arises. The hylic water contains a 
hidden, elemental fire. In the treatise De Sulphure , hell-fire 
{ignis Gehennalis) is attributed to the earth element as its 
inner contradiction. Hortulanus also has the stone arise from 
a massa confusa containing all the elements in itself. 

As the world arose from a confused chaos, so also the 
stone comes into being. The idea of the rotating sphere of 
water reminds us of Neo-Pythagorean conceptions: accord- 
ing to Archytas, the world soul is a circle or a sphere and, 
according to Philolaus, it draws the world around with it in 
its rotation. The original idea is, no doubt, to be found in 
Anaxagoras, where the vovs gives rise to a whirlpool in 
chaos. The cosmogony of Empedocles is also of importance; 
here the union of the dissimilar (through the influence of 
the <£iXia) gives rise to the <r<paipos, the spherical. Its desig- 
nation as ivSaifxoviaTaTos debs, most holy God, throws a 
particular light upon the "round” and perfect nature of the 
lapis , which arises from, and also constitutes, the initial 
sphere. This is why the materia prima is often called lapis. 

The first state is the hidden one, but by the art and the 
grace of God it can be changed into a second state, which 
is manifest. And so the idea of materia prima occasionally 
blends into the idea of the initial stage of the process, the 
nigredo , blackness. It is then the black earth in which the 
gold, or the lapis, is sowed or scattered like the wheat grain. 
It is the black, magically fruitful soil which Adam took 
with him from Paradise; it is also called antimony, and is 
described as "black, blacker than black” ( nigrum nigrius 
nigro ) . 


2 4 I 

As the grain of fire lies concealed in the hyle, so the 
king’s son lies in the dark depths of the sea as though dead, 
but yet lives, and calls from the deeps: ''Whosoever will free 
me from the waters and bring me to a dry state, him I will 
favour with ever-enduring ( perpetuis ) riches.” Although 
many hear this call, no one will let himself be moved by pity 
and take it upon himself to seek the king. "Who,” they say, 
"will dive into the sea? Who, when he himself is in danger 
of his life, will spring to another’s side? Few indeed listen to 
his complaint, but the majority suppose that the voice they 
hear is the uproar and clamour of Scylla and Charybdis. 
Therefore they remain inactive, sitting at home, and are 
concerned neither for the kingly treasure nor for salvation.” 

The relation of the king’s son to the rex marinus in the 
Visio Arislei is transparent. Arisleus ( Archelaus) , 24 the pupil 
of Anaxagoras, no doubt owes his influence to the fact that, 
in contradiction with his teacher, his cosmogonic vovs is 
intermixed with matter, namely, air. Naturally this idea has 
a particular value for alchemy. He tells in his vision of his 
adventure with the rex marinus in whose kingdom nothing 
prospers and nothing is propagated, and where there are no 
philosophers. Only the similar is intermixed, and as a result 
there is no procreation. The king must take the advice of 
philosophers and pair off his two children, Thabritius 25 and 
Beya, whom he has brought forth from his brain. 

That the king is inanimate ( exanimis ) , or that his realm 
is unfruitful, means that the hidden state is a latent or poten- 
tial condition. The darkness and the depths of the sea 
pointedly signify the unconscious projection of a psychic 
content. Inasmuch as such a content belongs to the total- 
ity 28 of the personality, and is only apparently severed from 
the whole by the projection, something like an attraction 
always arises between consciousness and the projected con- 
tent. This generally shows itself in the form of a fascination. 
The alchemistic allegory expresses this fact by the king’s 


cry for aid out of the depths of the dissociated and uncon- 
scious state. According to the alchemistic view, consciousness 
should give heed to this cry; someone should render a service 
to the king, operari regi, for this would be not only wisdom, 
but salvation as well . 27 But this brings with it the necessity 
of a descent into the dark world of the unconscious, the 
ritualistic act of a Ka.Ta(3a<ns ets aprpov, the adventure of 
the night sea journey whose aim and end is the restoration 
of life, the resurrection, and the conquest of death . 28 Arisleus 
and his companions risk the venture, which ends with the 
catastrophe of the death of Thabritius. This death is a pun- 
ishment for the incestuous conjunctio oppositorum. The 
brother-sister pair is an allegory of the idea of opposites in 

There are all kinds of opposites: dry-wet, hot- 
cold, male-female, sun-moon, gold-silver, mercury-sulphur, 
round-square, water-fire, ponderable-volatile, physical- 
spiritual , 20 etc. The king’s son is always a rejuvenated form 
of the father king. The youth is frequently represented with 
a sword, and stands for the spirit, while the father is the 
body. In a variant text of the Visio, the death of the son 
comes about by his disappearing, during the act of coitus, 
into the body of Beya. There are other parallel representa- 
tions: the father devours him — the sun is drowned in mer- 
cury or is swallowed by a lion (Plates VIII and IX). 
Thabritius is the masculine, spiritual principle of light and 
Logos, which, like the Gnostic vovs, sinks into the embrace 
of physical nature. The death is, therefore, the completed 
descent of the spirit into matter. The alchemists frequently 
represented the sinfulness of this occurrence, but they never 
grasped it; and this is why they rationalized or minimized 
the incest, in itself so repellent. 

Since the incest resulted from the advice of the phil- 
osophers, the death of the king’s son was naturally a dubious 
and dangerous matter. On descending into the unconscious, 



the conscious personality finds itself in a dangerous situation, 
Jtor'it seems as though it were extinguishing itself. It is the 
situation of the primitive hero who is devoured by the 
dragon. Since it is a question of the diminution or extinction 
of the conscious personality, and such an ahaissement du 
niveau mental constitutes that "peril of the soul” of which 
primitive man stood in the greatest fear (namely, the fear 
of ghosts) , 30 the intentional or wanton provocation of this 
state is a sacrilege or a breach of the taboo that is followed 
by the severest punishments. 

Accordingly, the king imprisons Arisleus and his com- 
panions in a house of triple glass together with the corpse of 
the king’s son. So the heroes are bound in the nether world 
at the bottom of the sea, where they must undergo all kinds 
of terrors, and suffer for eighty days in an intense heat. By 
request of Arisleus, Beya was imprisoned with them. (The 
variant text of the Visio interprets the prison as the womb 
of Beya.) Clearly, they have been overpowered by the un- 
conscious, and helplessly abandoned. This means that they 
have freely bound themselves over to death so as to engender 
fruitful life in a region of the psyche that has lain in dark 
unconsciousness and the shadow of death. 

To be sure, the brother-sister pair suggests the possi- 
bility of life; but this unconscious contradiction must be 
activated by the intervention of consciousness, if it is not to 
remain latent. This, however, is a dangerous undertaking. 
We can understand the anxious plea contained in the Aurora 
Consurgens: horridas nostrce mentis purga tenebras, accende 
lumen sensibus. We can also understand Michael Majer, who 
supposed that only a few were willing to plunge into the 
sea. Arisleus was in danger of succumbing to the fate of 
Theseus and Pirithous, who, in their descent to the under- 
world, grew fast to its rocks — which is to say that conscious- 
ness, advancing into the unknown regions of the psyche, is 
overpowered by the archaic forces of the unconscious. The 


embrace of Nous and Physis is a cosmic allegory of such an 
occurrence. The reason for the descent, as the hero myth 
presents it, is that "the precious object hard to attain” 
(treasure, virgin, life potion, conquest of death, etc.) is to 
be found in the regions of danger (watery abyss, cave, 
forest, island, castle, etc.). 

The fear of the descent to Hades is at bottom the timid- 
ity and the resistance experienced by every natural person 
when it comes to delving too deeply in himself. If he 
experienced the sense of resistance alone, it would not be 
such a serious matter. But the psychic substratum, that dark 
realm of the unknown , 31 actually exercises a fascinating 
attraction 32 that threatens to become the more overpower- 
ing the further he advances into it. And here arises the 
psychological danger of a dissolution of the conscious per- 
sonality into its functional components — that is, into single 
functions of consciousness, complexes, hereditary units, 
etc . 33 Such a disintegration sometimes amounts to actual 
schizophrenia — and is just what happens to Gabricus (in the 
variant text of the Rosarium Pbilosophorum ) : he is dis- 
integrated into atoms in the body of Beya. 

The fate of Gabricus is a parallel to the conjunctio of 
Nous and Physis . 34 But the latter is a cosmogonic happening, 
while the former is a catastrophe brought about by the 
intervention of the philosopher. As long as consciousness 
does not come upon the scene, the contradictions of the 
unconscious remain latent. They are activated by conscious- 
ness. The regius filius, the spirit, the Logos or Nous, is then 
devoured by physical nature — that is, the body and its repre- 
sentative organs attain sovereignty over consciousness. The 
hero myth 38 presents this condition as the engulfment in 
the belly of the whale or dragon. So great a heat prevails 
there that the hero loses his hair; he is born again as bald as 
a babe at the breast . 38 This heat is the ignis Gehennalis of 



Hell, to which Christ also descended, there to perform a part 
of his opera by conquering death . 37 

The philosopher makes the journey to Hell as a "re- 
deemer.” The “hidden fire” is the inner contradiction of the 
cold moisture of the sea. The visio clearly presents this fire 
as the warmth of incubation, which symbolizes the state of 
"brooding over” the self in the meditatio. In the Indian yoga 
we come upon the similar conception of tapas , 38 self -incuba- 
tion. (The practice of tapas aims, like the visio, at trans- 
formation and resurrection.) 

The "precious object hard to attain,” whose presence 
was suspected in the dark materia prima, was symbolized by 
the alchemists in various ways. Christophorus of Paris, for 
instance, says that chaos (as materia prima ) is the work of 
all- wise nature. Our understanding ( intellectus ) , aided by 
the "heavenly and glowing spirit” ( spiritus ), must trans- 
form this natural work of art — that is, chaos — into the 
quintessence, which is of celestial nature, and into the life- 
giving essence ( vegetabilis ) of Heaven. The precious sub- 
stance is potentially contained in chaos in the form of a 
massa confusa of the united elements, and man must dili- 
gently apply his understanding to it ( incumbere debet!) so 
that he can change our Heaven "into actuality” (ad actum ) . 

Johannes. Grasseus mentions an opinion according to 
which the materia prima is the lead of the philosophers, also 
called the lead of the air (this being an allusion to the inner 
contradiction) . This lead contains the radiant white dove 
called the "salt of the metals.” The dove is the chaste, wise, 
and wealthy Queen of Sheba, covered with the white veil, 
who wished to give herself to King Solbmon alone. 

According to the view of Basilius Valentinus, the earth 
(as materia prima) is not a dead body, but is inhabited. by 
the spirit, which is the life and soul of the earth. All created 
things, even the minerals, receive their powers from the spirit 
of the earth. The spirit is life, it is nourished by the stars, 

246 the integration of the personality 

and gives nourishment to all living things, which it shelters 
in its womb. As the mother gestates the unborn child, so the 
earth, through the spirit it receives from on high, gestates 
the minerals in its womb. This invisible spirit, resembling a 
mirror image in the fact that it cannot be handled, is the 
root of the substance necessary to, or arising in, the process 
( radix nostrorum corporum ) . 

A similar idea can be found in Michael Majer. 39 The 
sun has spun the gold in the earth by many millions of rota- 
tions around it. The sun has gradually imprinted in the 
earth its image, which is the gold. The sun is the image of 
God, and the heart 40 is the image of the sun in man. Gold is 
the sun’s image in the earth, and is also called deus terrenus; 
God can be recognized in the gold. This image of God ap- 
pearing in gold is no doubt the anima aurea, which, instilled 
into ordinary quicksilver, changes it into gold. 

Ripley holds the view that one must draw the fire out 
of chaos and make it visible. This fire is the Holy Ghost 
which unites Father and Son. The Holy Ghost is often repre- 
sented as a winged old man, 41 this being Mercury in the form 
of the god of revelation, who coincides with Hermes Tris- 
megistus and forms an alchemistic trinity together with the 
king and the king’s son (Plate X) . God has created this fire 
in the earth, as he did the purging hell-fire. God himself 
glows in this fire with divine love. 

It is not impossible that Christian symbolism was influ- 
enced by such ideas. I have been struck by the fact that, in 
representations of the unicorn, the hunters inflict upon the 
animal, when it already reposes in Mary’s lap, such serious 
spear wounds that we may well ask whether the unicorn 
later recovered (Plate XI) . The Jesuit Caussinus, who pub- 
lished a learned work about symbolism in 1623, reports that 
Basilius supposed the unicorn to stand for the Son of God. 
The same author holds that Ambrose seconded this view by 
maintaining that the procreation of Christ was as mysterious 

[w pa^e 

Pi aik XI 

1 see page a 


as that of the unicorn. Albertus alone is credited with the 
statement regarding the Virgin (the begetting through the 
Holy Ghost) , that the monoceros (unicorn) , a most violent 
animal, loved her (the beat a virgo ) and was captured by her 
as by a bait and a lure. 

It is worthy of note that some alchemistic treatises 
ascribed to Albertus are regarded as forgeries. But it is cer- 
tain that he knew the alchemy of his day and copiously cited 
Hermes. The Tabula Smaragdina contains the basic ideas: 
the conjunctio of Sol and Luna, the Son’s penetration into 
the earth and his immense strength ( totius fortitudinis forti- 
tudo forth ) . Caussinus mentions the strength of God, which 
equals that of the rhinoceros (like Behemoth in Job 40:10), 
and refers to Exodus 15:2, "the Lord is my strength,” adding 
that "the earlier God of revenge, who sent down thunder 
and lightning and brought disorder upon the world, came to 
rest in the lap, in the very womb, of the virgin, taken captive 
by love.” The unicorn will tolerate no other in its cave; and 
the Son of God, like the unicorn, built his sanctuary upon 
earth, that is, in the womb of the beata virgo. We should 
note the fact that the earth and the virgin are taken as one 
and the same (in astrology, also, the virgin is an earth sym- 
bol) . We find this identity explicitly stated in the writings 
of Tertullian and Augustine. It is a tradition of ancient 
times that the horn of the unicorn has the property of free- 
ing water from all harmful substances — of consecrating it, 
in a measure. In a similar way, says Caussinus, man is cleansed 
from the soilure of sin by baptism. 

It is not inconceivable that the alchemistic views of 
Albertus fathered the idea of the conjunctio of virgin and 
unicorn, as also of the resulting transformation of God from 
an unfavourable and chaotic form into a perfect one — this 
transformation corresponding to the change of the some- 
times poisonous materia prima into the alexipharmic, the 
counterpoison, the medicina universalis of the lapis. If this 

248 the integration of the personality 

is so, we observe how a piece of Hermetic philosophy has 
gained entrance to Christian symbolism. This could happen 
all the more easily because the relationship of the virgin to 
God the Father and God the Son, who are yet one, is thor- 
oughly obscure. 

In the genealogical tree of Michael Majer, Gabritius in 
the form of Osiris is married to his mother, Isis. The incest 
takes place because there is no other possible choice; there 
exists only this one couple, the latent pair of opposites con- 
tained in the materia prima. 

These examples show that a spirit lurked in the materia 
prima as it did in the stone of the Nile mentioned by Ostanes. 
This spirit was at length interpreted as the Holy Ghost in 
harmony with the old tradition of the Nous devoured by 
the darkness while in the embrace of Physis. The theme 
symbolizes the projection of a highly fascinating, uncon- 
scious content, which, like all such contents, displays the 
"divine,” or "sacred,” quality of the numen. 

Alchemy sets itself the task of gaining and bringing to 
sight the "precious object hard to attain” in the form of 
physical gold, or of the panacea, or of the potently trans- 
formative tincture — in so far, that is, as the art busied itself 
in the laboratory. But inasmuch as the enterprise was never 
devoted purely to practical things and to chemistry, but also 
gave expression in and through itself to the unconscious 
contents, it was at the same time a psychic exercise that can 
best be compared to the so-called active imagination of 
which I have elsewhere given an example . 42 I have shown a 
process that is actively grasped by the imagination and that 
may, also, express itself in the dream life. Such a process 
reaches from the unconscious- up into consciousness, and 
both its aspects have so close a relation to the world of alche- 
mistic ideas that we are perhaps justified in assuming that 
alchemistic procedure deals with happenings that are the 
same as, or resemble, those in the processes of integration (or 


individuation) occurring both in the active imagination and 
in dreams. 

A little while ago we abandoned Arisleus and his com- 
panions, together with Beya and the dead Thabritius, in the 
house of triple glass in which the rex marinus had imprisoned 
them. They suffered under an intense heat, like the three 
men in the fiery furnace into which King Nebuchadnezzar 
had thrown them. The king had a vision of a fourth com- 
panion, resembling a son of the gods, as- told in Daniel 3:25. 
This vision is not without its bearing upon alchemy, inas- 
much as the latter, in countless passages, repeats that the 
lapis is trinus and unus (threefold and one) . It also consists 
of the four elements, fire representing, as we have seen, the 
spirit that is concealed in matter. This is the fourth who is 
missing and yet on hand, who always appears in the fiery 
distress of the furnace, and represents the divine presence, 
succour, the completion of the work. 

Now, in their dire need Arisleus and his companions 
saw their master Pythagoras in dream, and they begged aid 
of him. But he sent them his disciple Harforetus, who is the 
"originator of nourishment.” Therewith the work was com- 
pleted, and Thabritius was alive again. We must obviously 
suppose that Harforetus has brought with him the miracu- 
lous food. That this is the case becomes apparent only 
through a discovery made by Ruska, who gave us access to 
the text of the Codex Berolinensis. There, in the introduction 
that is missing from the printed editions of the Visio, Pyth- 
agoras is made to say: “You write, and have already written 
down for posterity, how this most precious tree is planted 
and how he who eats of its fruits will nevermore go hungry.” 
The Visio was composed for the purpose of leaving to pos- 
terity an example of the process. It speaks of the planting 
of trees, and the end of the legend is a demonstration of the 
marvellous, regenerating action of the fruits. While Arisleus 
was in dire straits, and while Thabritius lay in the sleep of 


death, the tree has apparently grown and borne fruit. The 
part played by Arisleus in the glass house is completely pas- 
sive. The decisive action is taken by the master who sends 
his messenger, apparently with the food of life. 

The alchemist maintained that a man could receive the 
secret knowledge only by divine inspiration or out of the 
mouth of a master, and also that no one could complete the 
work except with the help of God. In this case the legendary 
master, the divine Pythagoras, has taken the place of God 
and has completed the work of regeneration. This divine 
intervention, as we may well call it, takes place in dream, 
when Arisleus sees the master and beseeches him for aid. We 
are reminded of the offertory of the Mass by the union of 
the opposites — spirit and body — portrayed by Gabricius and 
Beya, by the slaying and the roasting in the oven. We like- 
wise find an analogue to the entreaty of the helper in the 
memento vivorum, the petition for the living, and in the 
remembrance of the martyrs, which precede the transforma- 
tion in the ordo missce. This invocation is made pro redemp- 
tion animarum suarnm, pro spe salutis et incolumitatis suce ; 
and the saints are held in remembrance in order that God, 
because of their merit and intercession, will allow lit in om- 
nibus protection is tuce muniamur auxilio. The petition ends 
with the epiclesis, which ushers in the transformation: ut 
nobis corpus et sanguis fiat, that the body and the blood will 
come into being for us — namely, the miraculous sustenance, 
the <£d puclkov £urjs. In the Visio, it is the fruits of the im- 
mortal tree that bring salvation. The fructus sacrificii missce, 
the fruits of the sacrificial Mass, of which the church speaks, 
are somewhat different, for the phrase refers to moral effects 
and the like, and not to the consecrated substances, which 
likewise arise ex opere operato. 

But at this point there is a division of minds. The Chris- 
tian accepts the fruits of the sacrificial Mass for himself 


personally, and for his life circumstances in the widest sense. 
The alchemist, on the other hand, receives the fructus arboris 
immortalis not only for himself, but first and foremost for 
the king or the king’s son, for the perfecting of the quested 
substance. He does, indeed, take part in the perfectio, which 
brings him health, riches, enlightenment and salvation, but 
since he is not the one to be redeemed, but a redeemer, he is 
more concerned to perfect his substance than himself. He 
always presupposes the moral qualities, and takes them into 
consideration only in so far as they can promote or obstruct 
the opus. His aim is not to achieve moral perfection for him- 
self, but to procure for the mysterious substance an eternal 
and perfect existence, to create the incombustibile or incor- 
ruptibile. He lays a much higher emphasis upon the effect ex 
opere operantis than the church, because he takes the place 
of the Christ who offers himself in the sacrificial Mass. One 
should in no way suppose that religious megalomania makes 
him attribute to himself the role of redeemer. He has as little 
of this — and, all things considered, perhaps not so much — 
as the officiating priest, who at any rate immolates the Christ 
in a representative and causal capacity. 

The alchemist always stresses his own humility, and 
frequently begins his treatise with an invocation of God. He 
does not dream of identifying himself with Christ; far 
otherwise, the alchemy of the later periods sets the quested 
substance, the lapis, in parallel to Christ. It is not a question 
of actual identification, but of the hermeneutic sicut (like, 
or as), which indicates the analogy. Nevertheless, analogy, 
for mediaeval man, was not so much a mental tool as a secret 
correspondence — this being a survival of primitive thinking 
that had remained very much alive. 

An instructive example is the rite of hallowing the fire 
on the Saturday before Easter. The fire is like Christ ( imago 
Christfy . The stone from which the spark is struck is the 
"cornerstone,” a second imago, and the spark that springs 



from the stone is again an imago Christi. The analogy to the 
extraction of the pneuma from the stone, in the dictum of 
Ostanes cited by Zosimus, obtrudes itself. We are already 
familiar with the ideas of pneuma as fire, Christ as fire, and 
the earth’s countersubstance, contained within it, as fire. But 
the stone from which the spark leaps is also the analogue to 
the rocky tomb, or the stone before it. Christ lay in it as one 
asleep or in the fetters of death, during the three days of the 
journey to Hell, when he had descended to the ignis Gehen- 
nalis. He arises thence as the new fire. An uncanonical word 
of the Master’s goes: “Who is near unto me is near unto the 
fire, and who is far from me is far from the kingdom.” 

Accordingly, the church had to make a very important 
decision when it established the doctrine that the soul of 
Christ accomplished the descensus ad inferos according to its 
substance as well as according to its power. For, in the very 
nature of the case, the soul is fire from the central fire of the 

It is rather surprising that alchemy did not stumble 
sooner upon the relation of the lapis to Christ, since the most 
important decision in the question of substance was taken 
as early as 1140, at the synod of Sens. We must, however, 
bear in mind that the alchemistic ideas of the early Latins 
were still very primitive, and that the lapis conception did 
not reach its most important developments until the four- 
teenth and fifteenth centuries. In his well-documented book: 
The Secret Tradition in Alchemy , Its Developments and 
Records (London: Kegan Paul, 1926), Arthur Edward 
Waite has expressed the opinion that the man who first 
identified the stone with Christ was Heinrich Khunrath, the 
author of Amphitheatrum, which appeared' in 1609. Yet in 
the contemporary work of Jacob Bochme, who made exten- 
sive use of alchemistic terms, the lapis was already a meta- 
phorical expression for Christ. Waite’s opinion is undoubtedly 
mistaken, for we have much earlier attestations of the rela- 


tion of the lapis to Christ. The oldest that I know of so far 
is contained in the Codicillus (Chapter ix) of Raymond 
Lully, who is supposed to have lived between 1235 and 1315. 
Even if many of the treatises ascribed to him were written 
by Spanish and Provencal disciples, this does not change the 
approximate date of the main body of writings to which the 
Codicillus belonged. In any case, I do not know that anyone 
has adduced convincing grounds for placing this treatise 
later than the fourteenth century. It contains the passage: 
“And as Jesus Christ, of the house of David, took upon him- 
self human nature in order to free and to redeem mankind 
who were in the bonds of sin because of Adams disobedi- 
ence, so also, in our art, the thing that is unjustly defiled by 
the one will be absolved, cleansed and delivered from that 
foulness by another that is contrary to it.” 

We could cite as a still older source the Tractatus 
Aureus ascribed to Hermes, a book supposed by the Middle 
Ages itself to be of Arabian origin, if it contained any verbal 
reference to Christ. My reason for quoting it, in spite of this 
deficiency, lies in the fact that it describes matters that 
correspond in a curious way to the mysterious events of Eas- 
tertide, although presenting them in quite a different lan- 

The text deserves close attention from the psychological 
point of view. In abbreviated form, the passage reads: "Our 
most valuable stone, which was thrown upon the dung-heap, 
has become altogether mean . . . But when we marry the 
crowned king to the red daughter, then, in a weak fire, she 
is gotten with a son, and he lives through our fire . . . Then 
he is transformed, and his tincture remains as red as flesh. 
Our son of royal birth takes his tincture from the fire, 
whereupon death and darkness and the waters take to flight. 
The dragon fears the sunlight, and our dead son will live. 
The king comes out of the fire, and takes joy in the wedding. 
The hidden treasures are disclosed. The son, already come to 

2J4 THE integration of the personality 

life, has become a warrior in the fire and surpasses the tinc- 
ture, because he is himself the treasure and himself bears the 
philosophical materia . Gather together, ye sons of wisdom, 
and rejoice, for death’s dominion has found an end, and the 
son reigns, he wears the red garment and is clothed in the 

We are hardly assuming too much if we take this text 
as something like a variation upon the theme of the mythical 
God-man and his conquest of death, and so as an analogue 
of the Christian drama. Since the age and derivation of this 
writing are still unknown, we cannot decide offhand how 
much it owes to Christian influence, if, indeed, it owes any- 
thing. Very early texts, like that of Comarius, cannot be 
suspected of showing the influence of Christianity. (Intro- 
ductions and the like of a Christian nature have been added 
to the manuscripts by Byzantine, monastic copyists.) And 
yet it is just the text of Comarius that bears all the traits of 
a regeneration mystery. After all, the ideas of rebirth, re- 
newal, the overcoming of death, etc., were in no way the 
exclusive products of Christian thought, but flourished many 
centuries before our time reckoning began. Nor should we 
take it for granted that Christianity had completely absorbed 
or exterminated pagan culture. As Ruska has shown in the 
cases of the Tabula Smaragdina and the Turba, there was the 
possibility of a more or less direct and continuous tradition 
within both Christianity and Islam, though the latter was 
even more hostile to pagan culture than the former. 

The oldest source that deals specifically with the rela- 
tion of the stone to Christ seems, as far as I have been able 
to determine, to be the Margarita Pretiosa of Petrus Bonus 
of Ferrara, composed in 1330. Here is an epitome of the 
discussion: The art is for one part natural, for the other 
divine or supernatural. At the end of the sublimation there 
germinates, through the mediation of the spirit, a radiant 
white soul ( anima Candida ) , and with the spirit itself it flies 



to heaven. And this is clearly and manifestly the stone. So 
far, the procedure is indeed somewhat marvellous, but still 
within the framework of nature. But as regards the fixation 
or the permanence of the soul and the spirit at the end of 
the sublimation, this comes about through the addition of 
the mysterious stone, which cannot be grasped by the senses, 
but only through the intellect, through inspiration or divine 
revelation, or through the teaching of one who knows. 

Alexander says that there are two categories: perception 
through the eye and understanding through the heart . 43 The 
secret stone is a gift of God. It is the stone without which 
alchemy could not exist. It is the heart and the tincture of 
gold, regarding which Hermes said: "It is necessary that at 
the end of the world heaven and earth be bound together, 
this being the philosophical word.” Pythagoras, also, said in 
the Turba: "This the god Apollo has concealed, so that the 
world may not be laid waste.” Thus alchemy stands above 
nature, and is divine. 

The whole difficulty of the art is contained in this stone. 
The intellect cannot grasp it, but must believe in it as it 
does in the divine miracles and the fundamentals of the 
Christian creed. Therefore, God alone is operative, while 
nature is passive in the process. From their knowledge of the 
art the ancient philosophers knew about the coming end of 
the world and about the resurrection of the dead. Then the 
soul will be united with its original body for all eternity. 
The body will become wholly transfigured (glorificatum ) , 
imperishable and almost unbelievably subtilized, and it will 
penetrate all solids. Its nature will be spiritual as well as 
corporeal. When the stone is disintegrated to powder like a 
man in his grave, God restores to it soul and spirit, and takes 
away all imperfection; then the substance (ilia res ) is 
strengthened and improved, as after the resurrection man 
becomes stronger and younger than he was before. 

The ancient philosophers discerned the Day of Judge- 


ment in this art — that is, in the germination and birth of this 
stone — because there occurs in it the union of the soul to be 
transfigured ( beatificandce ) with its original body, unto 
glory everlasting. So, also, the ancients knew that a virgin 
must conceive and give birth, because in their art the stone 
conceives and gets itself with child, and gives birth to itself. 
Such a thing can happen only through the grace of God. 
Therefore, Alphidius says of the stone that its mother is a 
virgin and its father has never known woman. They knew 
also that God becomes man on the Judgement Day of this 
art (in novissima die hums artis ), when the work is com- 
pleted (in qua est opens complementum) , and that the be- 
getter and the begotten, the old man and the boy, father 
and son, all become one. 

Now, Bonus goes on, since no creature except man can 
unite with God, because of dissimilarity, God must become 
one with man. And this happened in the case of Jesus Christ 
and his virgin mother. For this reason Balgus says in the 
Turba: "O what miracles of nature, that have changed the 
soul of the old man into the body of the youth, and the 
father into the son.” 

Plato (scribens in alchimicis) has written to the same 
effect in a gospel which was completed long after by John 
the Evangelist. Plato has written the introductory words 
from "In the beginning was the Word” to "There was a 
man sent from God.” God has given the philosopher this 
wonderful example so that he might be able to accomplish 
supernatural works. Morienus says that God entrusted the 
magistery to those of his philosophers or prophets for whose 
souls he had prepared a dwelling in his paradise. 

This old text by Bonus, which is more than 270 years 
earlier than Khunrath, clearly shows that the relation be- 
tween the mystery of Christ and the mystery of the stone 
was so obvious, even at the beginning of the fourteenth cen- 
tury, that the philosophical work seemed like a parallel 



and imitation — perhaps even like a continuation — of the 
divine work of redemption. 

The next source, chronologically, is a Zurich manu- 
script of the fifteenth century found in the Codex Rhcno- 
vacensis, in the monastery at Rheinau. This manuscript is 
unfortunately mutilated and begins with the fourth parable, 
as we discover by comparing it with a complete, but much 
later, manuscript at Paris. My attention was called to it by 
the fact that the printer ( typograpbus ) of the Artis Aurif- 
erce, quam chemiam vocant has published only the second 
part of the Aurora Consurgens (1572). He prefixed to it a 
short notice to the reader in which he said that he had in- 
tentionally omitted the whole treatise of the parables or 
allegories, because the author, following the ancient manner 
of the obscurantists ( anti quo more tenebriomim) , had 
treated almost the whole of Sacred Writ, particularly Solo- 
mon, the Psalter, and the Canticles, in such a way as to 
make it appear that the Holy Scriptures had been written 
solely to do honour to alchemy. He had even profaned the 
most holy mystery of the incarnation and of the death of 
Christ by turning it into the mystery of the lapis, not, to 
be sure, with evil intent, as he (the printer, Conrad Wald- 
kirch) freely admitted, but after the manner of that epoch 
of darkness ( seculum illud tenebrarum) . Waldkirch is re- 
ferring here to the period before the Reformation, whose 
outlook upon man and matter, and whose experience of the 
divine presence in the mysterious materia, had disappeared 
from the field of vision of Protestants of his own day. 

Because the first three parables, and a certain part of 
the fourth, are missing, I cannot cite from the Aurora as 
fully as I would choose. The sixth parable says: *'lt is writ- 
ten in the Turba: the earth suffers everything, because it 
is the foundation. Since it is the foundation of heaven, seeing 
that at the separation of the elements it appeared in a dry 
state, it is a way without hindrance in the Red Sea. When 


this great and wide sea 44 shattered the rock , 45 and the 
metallic waters flowed therefrom, then the rivers that delight 
the City of God vanished in aridity. When this mortal shall 
have put on immortality . . . then shall be brought to pass 
the word that is written . . . : Death is swallowed up in 
victory. O death, where is thy victory? For as all men die 
in Adam, so they will be brought to life again in Christ! 40 
But Christ is the second Adam who, consisting of simple 
and pure essence, subsists for all eternity, as Senior says: 'He 
is the wine that never dies, since he persists through con- 
tinual increase .’ 47 . . . The second Adam speaks to his 
sons: 48 'Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom 
prepared for you from the foundation of the operation 40 
and eat my bread and drink the wine that I have mixed, for 
everything is prepared for you.’ ” 

We actually get the impression that the anonymous 
author of this treatise has put the Holy Scriptures into the 
service of alchemy; while certain treatises of the Protestant 
Musceum Hermeticum Reformation, which is two centuries 
later, rather give us the feeling that alchemy was to be 
estranged from its own nature and brought over to the 
Protestant Church. We can certainly understand that two 
such basically different spiritual movements as the church 
and alchemy represented no small conflict for mediaeval 
man, although I know of nothing in the literature that 
betrays a consciousness of this conflict, or any animosity 
towards the church. 

In any case, the author of the Aurora was in no way 
aware of the seriousness of the heresy he was committing. 
He had such a ready acquaintance with the Vulgate that 
we might almost suspect him of being in holy orders, and 
he was certainly an educated man with the liveliest interest 
in religion. We also have the testimony of the humanist 
Patrizzi for the fact that Hermetic philosophy was not 
felt to be contradictory to ecclesiastical Christianity. On 



the contrary, it was regarded as a support of Christian belief. 
Patrizzi, for instance, in the introduction to his book, peti- 
tioned Pope Gregory XIV to allow Hermes to take the place 
of Aristotle. 

The text of the Aurora is of historical significance in 
so far as it is at least one hundred years earlier than Khun- 
rath (1598) and Boehme (1610). Curiously enough, 
Boehme’s first writing also bears the title: Aurora, or the 
Dawn in its Ascent. Could Boehme have known the Aurora 
Consurgens, or at least its title? It would not be impossible. 

The next source, chronologically, for the identity of the 
lapis with Christ, is an interesting document from the end 
of the fifteenth or the beginning of the sixteenth century. 
It was addressed to Ladislaus, the king of Hungary and 
Bohemia. The author is named Nicholas Melchior, and calls 
himself a Hungarian. He has represented the alchemistic 
process as a form of the Mass. I will call attention only to 
a few essential points. After the reading of the Gospel, in 
the part of the Mass usually occupied by the creed, Melchior 
has put an Ave — not an Ave Maria, but an "Ave, pra:clara” 
— "of which I desire,” he says, "that it be called the testa- 
ment of the art, seeing that the whole chemical art is figura- 
tively concealed in it, and blessed is he who understands this 
sequence.” He goes on: "Salutations, O beautiful lamp of 
Heaven, thou beaming light o0 of the world, here thou 
unitest thyself with the moon, there doth arise (fit) the 
bond of Mars 51 ( copula martialis) and the conjunction of 
Mercury. 52 From these three, above all, there is born in the 
river bed, through the magistery of the art, the strong giant 
whom a thousand times a thousand seek, alter these three 
have dissolved themselves, not into rain water . . . but into 
mercurial water, into this our blessed resin, 03 which is dis- 
solved by itself and which bears the name of Sperm of the 
Philosophers. Now he 54 hastens to ally himself, to betroth 


himself, to the virgin bride, and to fecundate her in the 
bath in a moderate fire. But the virgin does not become 
pregnant at once unless she is kissed in repeated embraces. 
Then she conceives in her body, and thus arises the luck- 
bringing embryo, all this corresponding to the order of na- 
ture. Then there appears at the bottom of the vessel the 
mighty Ethiopian, burned, calcined, bleached, wholly dead 
and lifeless . 66 He begs to be buried, to be sprinkled with his 
own humidity and slowly calcined , 66 until he arises in gleam- 
ing form from the strong fire . . . Behold a wonderful re- 
construction or renewal of the Ethiopian! Because of the 
bath of rebirth he gives himself a new name, called by 
philosophers natural sulphur and their son, who is the stone 
of the philosophers. See, it is one thing, one root, one es- 
sence, to which nothing external is added, but from which 
much that is superfluous is taken away through the magis- 
tery of the art ... It is the treasure of treasures, the su- 
preme philosophical potion, the heavenly secret of the 
ancients. Blessed he who finds the like of it. He who has 
seen this thing, writes and speaks openly, and I know that 
he bears true witness. God be praised to all eternity.” 

The liturgy, properly speaking, ends here. There now 
follows a sort of recapitulation of the main parts. Melchior 
refers the offertory to the stone that the builders rejected 
and that became the cornerstone. "This was made by God 
and is wonderful in our eyes.” After this comes the secret, 
which leads over to the oblation. The offering is the opus: 
" nostrum artificium benedictce artis alchemice, which shall 
always be dedicated to the glorious name of God and to the 
salutary reformation of the Church, through our Lord Jesus 
Christ. Amen.” 

The transformation is missing; it has obviously been 
anticipated in the "Ave, prajclara.” The salutation “Ave,” 
called the "Angelic Salutation,” is associated in the ritual 
with Mary. But since we must, no doubt, complete the sense 


by adding medicina to prceclara, we find here the intimation 
of a connection between the aqua vita;, the medicina catholi- 
ica, the quested substance in general,’ and the feminine 
principle. This possibility is given support by a passage from 
Senior Zadith, the Son of Hamuel, who is to be counted 
among the Arabic writers, and therefore precedes the thir- 
teenth century. It goes: "The full moon is the water of the 
philosopher and the root of science ... the perfect and 
round stone and the sea . . .” 

The last to follow is the postcommunion: "Honour our 
king who comes out of the fire /' 7 the one filled with divine 
light and crowned with the diadem, to all eternity.” In con- 
clusion there is a closing prayer for the reinforcement of 
Christian faith and the extermination of the Turks. 

In spite of its bad taste and its absurdities, this text is 
highly illuminating in connection with our subject. Melchior 
has obviously recognized the analogy between the two opera, 
and has quite naively put the individual opus, in all its in- 
sufficiency, in the place of the time-honoured words of the 
holy service. One need not regard this too critically, if one 
is not a Catholic. Melchior is supposed to have lived in the 
time of the Reformation. Not so long afterward, over a wide 
extent of Europe, the Mass was replaced by the far from 
sacrosanct words of preachers. They announced the word of 
God, to be sure, but quite in their own way. Melchior did 
something similar. If we grant him the right to a personal 
confession of faith, he becomes acceptable. We can. clearly 
discern from the text quoted above that he felt the al- 
chemistic process to be the equivalent of the process of 
trarvsubstantiation in the Mass, and that for that very reason 
he felt the need of representing his experience v<8 in the form 
of the Mass. It is certainly strange that he did not make 
the alchemistic transmutation replace the transformation, 
but instead gave it a place near the creed, so that the liturgy 
ends before the consecration. 


In the second version of the recapitulation, the trans- 
formation is again missing, and Melchior’s rendering of the 
Mass jumps from the secret of the offertory directly to the 
post-communion. Since we can be fairly sure that the author 
was a Catholic, or at least had been one, this peculiarity 
could be ascribed to a kind of religious awe for the most 
solemn and moving part of the Mass, the transformation. 
And we could take this as an indirect, but sufficient, sign 
of a conflict in Melchior’s conscience between the action 
upon him of the externally effective rite, and his own inner, 
individual experience. Although Christ is nowhere men- 
tioned as the lapis or medicina, their identity emerges with 
convincing force from Melchior’s text. ® 

Additional evidence, which really should have been 
known to Waite, is furnished by a countryman of his, Sir 
George Ripley, canon of Bridlington. In the Cantilena 
Ripltei we read the following legend: There was once a 
noble king (the caput cor por urn) who had no descendants. 
He lamented his sterility: there must have arisen in him a 
defectus. originalis, although he was "nurtured under the 
wings of the sun,” and was without any natural faults of 
the body. In his own words he says: "But unfortunately I 
fear and know for a certainty that unless I can immediately 
partake of the aid of the species I cannot procreate. But I 
have heard with great astonishment that I shall be born 
anew through the tree of Christ.” He says he now wishes 
to return again into the mother’s womb, and to dissolve 
himself in the materia prima. It was the mother who 
prompted him to this undertaking, and she at once con- 
cealed him under her garment until such time as she had 
again made him incarnate through and in herself. She now 
became pregnant. During her pregnancy she ate peacock’s 
meat and drank the blood of the green lion. At length she 
gave birth to the child; it resembled the moon and then 
changed into the radiance of the sun. The son once more 


became king. The text says: "God gave unto you the glori- 
ous, gleaming weapons of the four elements” — and the re- 
deemed virgin ( virgo redimita ) was in' their midst. There 
flowed from her a glorious balsam; she shone with a gleam- 
ing countenance, and was adorned with the precious stone. 
But in her lap day the green lion, and blood flowed from 
his side. She was crowned with a diadem and raised to the 
empyrean as a constellation. The king became a triumphant 
victor among the highest, a great healer of all the sick, a 
redeemer ( reformator ) from all sins. 

So far we have followed the Cantilena : in another place 
Ripley says: "Christ spoke: When I shall have been elevated, 
I will draw everything unto me. From that time forward 
when both parts, which are crucified and deprived of life, 
are betrothed to one another, man and wife shall be buried 
together, and afterwards animated again, by the spirit of 
life. They must then be raised up to heaven, so that body 
and soul may be transfigured there and may be enthroned 
upon the clouds; then they will draw all bodies unto their 
own worth.” 

If we realize that the author was no layman, but a 
learned canon, we can hardly suppose that he was uncon- 
scious of the parallel to the most fundamental dogmatic 
conceptions. Nowhere, to be sure, is it directly said that 
the lapis is Christ, but it is easy to recognize the sacred 
figures in the parts played by the king and the mother- 
virgin. Ripley, of course, has intentionally chosen these 
parallels without being conscious of any blasphemy. But the 
typesetter Conrad Waldkirch, of Basel, would have brought 
fire and brimstone raining down upon him had he done 
the like. Ripley happened to live in an epoch when God still 
inhabited nature with his mysteries, and when the secret of 
redemption still came to pass at every level of existence, be- 
cause unconscious happening could still live in undisturbed, 


paradisaic participation with matter, and could still be ex- 
perienced in matter. 

As regards the particulars, the sick king, who was born 
without imperfection, is the man who suffers from a state 
of spiritual unfruitfulness. This unfruitfulness is, of course, 
due to the projection of the unconscious, which cannot 
further “develop” or “redeem” itself until it is integrated 
to consciousness. The peculiar idea that the king was nur- 
tured “under the wings of the sun” is probably to be re- 
ferred to the famous passage in Malachi (4:2) that helped 
to give a rational basis to the early worship of Christ as 
Helios or Sol — a tendency that Augustine, in his day, had 
still to combat. The passage runs: “But unto you that fear 
my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing 
in his wings; and ye shall go forth, and grow up as calves of 
the stall.” 

This passage, of course, has always been understood as 
a Messianic prophecy, and it goes without saying that Ripley 
knew this. In the wings of the sun 59 we discover a very 
ancient image, but one which was very close to the Hebrew 
Malachi: it is the Egyptian sun symbol. The one who is 
nourished by this sun is the Son of God, the king. 

The sick king who cannot procreate is connected with 
the Visio Arislei; there, to be sure, he figures as both the 
king and the king’s son. He is in distress, and Pythagoras 
proffers aid by intervening in a dream. Here he demands 
to partake of the "species.” We must understand by it a 
<t>b.pp.aKov fwTjs. The tree through which he is to be reborn 
is the cross of Christ, on the one hand, and, on the other, 
the immortal tree with the wondrous fruits, like that in the 
vision of Arisleus. The rebirth is .accomplished according to 
the ritual of adoption followed by the classical world. The 
nourishment of the mother during her pregnancy is flesh 
and blood. The peacock is an early Christian symbol of 
the redeemer, but it is doubtful whether Ripley had knowl- 

1*1 -AT F XII 


i see pa fie 265 


edge of this fact. The peacock, however, is also closely re- 
lated to the phoenix, a symbol of Christ which was surely 
known to Ripley. (Compare the figures on the Ripley 
scroll.) The blood flows from the green lion, who lies in 
the virgin’s lap and bleeds from the wound in his side. 80 We 
are, therefore, dealing with the symbolism of communion, 
and with the wound in the side of the Christ prostrate in the 
lap of the Pieta. The green lion is an intermediate figure 
among the changing forms of Mercury. 

As a /river of new birth, the mother is identical with 
the tree, ii the Pandora of 1582, the tree is represented as 
a naked virgin (Pandora) wearing a crown. The arbor 
pbilosophica is a favourite symbol, and represents the philo- 
sophical process. When Ripley speaks of the tree of Christ, 
he is identifying the wondrous tree with the cross of Christ. 01 

At the end of the process, an apotheosis of the mother- 
virgin takes place. The Pandora presents the apotheosis in 
the form of an assumption of Mary, the so-called assumptio 
Beatoe Marice Virginis. After her death, her body was united 
again by a divine miracle with her soul, and both together 
were received into Heaven. This is the binding view of the 
church, although it has not yet been explicitly established 
as a dogma. In the picture (Plate XIII) she is labelled 
"terra, corpus: body, the joy of maidenhood”; the dove de- 
scends upon her, and God the Father touches her upon the 
right with his hand, in benison. She is crowned. The figure 
of God with the world sphere is labelled "anima — soul, Jesse 
— pater, filius et mater.” Mater refers to the queen of 
Heaven throning beside him, the king; in her the earth sub- 
stance is absorbed in the godhead in transfigured form as 
the resurrection body. 62 Upon her left is a bearded figure of 
equal rank with God the Father, labelled "sapientia — wis- 
dom.” At the bottom of the picture is represented the freeing 
of the rebis from the materia prima. The whole is balanced, 
in the style of a mandala, by the animals that symbolize the 


Evangelists. The inscription at the lower edge reads: Figura 
speculi Sanctce Trinitatis. Form of the mirror of the Holy 
Trinity.” This picture (Plate XIV) is derived from one con- 
tained in an ear 1 ' r work describing itself as a book about 
the holy threefoldness and the mystery of the transmutation 
of metals. 88 

Ripley gives to his king the traits of a triumphant vic- 
tor, of a healer of all the sick, and of a redeemer from all 
sins. The Rosarium (1550) contains, at the end, the picture 
of Christ arising from the grave (Plate XV) , with the in- 

After my many pains and heavy martyry, 

I have risen transfigured, of all blemish free. 

From this source material we can now clearly discern 
what, in the last analysis, alchemy was seeking. It wished 
to produce a corpus subtile, the transfigured resurrection 
body. In this tendency it finds common ground with Chi- 
nese alchemy as we have come to know it from The 
Secret of the Golden Flower. 6 * Chinese alchemy treats of 
the “diamond body,” which is to say, of immortality at- 
tained through the transformation of the body. The dia- 
mond is a suitable symbol because of its transparency, its 
fire, and its hardness. So Orthelius tells us that the philos- 
ophers had found no better curative than the one which, 
because of its hardness, transparency, and ruby colour, they 
called the noble and blessed Stone of the Philosophers. 

This same Orthelius has also written in detail about the 
“theology” of the lapis. But he is probably later than 
Boehme, and I mention him only for the reason that he occu- 
pies himself with the question of the spirit found in matter. 
According to Orthelius, there are two treasures: the one is 
the written word and the other the word become fact ( ver - 
bum factum). In the verbum scriptum , Christ is still “in 
swaddling clothes in his cradle” (in cunts suis involutus ) ; 

Plate XV 

[see page 26ft 


while in the verbum dictum et factum the word is embodied 
in God’s creatures, and there, figuratively speaking, we can 
touch it with our hands. It is from this source that we must 
raise our treasure, for the word is nothing else than the 
fire, the life and the spirit — the spirit which the Holy Trin- 
ity has spread abroad from the dawn of Creation, which 
brooded ( incubavit ) over the primal waters, which was 
breathed into ( inspiratus ) all things, and embodied in them, 
through the word of God. As it was written: the spirit of 
God fills the circumference of the earth. Some few had 
expressed the opinion that this world-spirit ( spiritus mundi) 
was the third person of the Godhead, but they had not 
taken into consideration the word "elohim,” which, as a 
plural form, covered all the persons of the Trinity. The 
world-spirit arose from the Trinity, and was created by 
it. The spirit became corporeal and is the chief constituent 
of the Saviour ( salvatoris ) or Philosophical Stone, the real 
means ( medium ) through which body and soul are kept 
united during the course of life. The spiritus mundi, which 
lay upon the primal waters, impregnated them and incu- 
bated a seed within them, as the hen incubates her eggs. This 
spirit is the virtus that inhabits the inner parts of the earth 
and particularly the metals, and it is the task of the art to 
separate the Archceus, the spiritus mundi , from matter, and 
to produce a quintessence whose action can be compared 
with Christ’s action upon mankind. 

As we have seen, the Gnostic vision of the nous en- 
tangling itself in physical nature flashes out again from these 
late-comers to alchemy. But the philosopher who, in earlier 
days, descended like a Hercules into the darkness of the 
Acheron to fulfil a divine opus has now become a labora- 
tory worker given to speculation. Having lost sight of the 
high aim of Hermetic mysticism, he labours to find a health 
potion promising a renewal of strength— one that holds 



body and soul together,” as his grandfather was probably 
wont to remark about a good wine. This change of direction 
in alchemy is due to the powerful influence of Paracelsus, 
who was the ancestor of modern medicine. Even Orthelius 
is inclined to natural science, and leaves all mystical experi- 
ence to the church. 

Alchemy was divided by Paracelsus and Boehme into 
natural science, on the one hand, and Protestant, Christian 
mysticism, on the other. The stone of alchemy became again 
what it was: vilis vilissimus, cheap among the cheapest, in 
via ejectus, thrown out upon the street, like the jewel in 
Spitteler’s Prometheus and Epimetheus. Morienus might well 
repeat today what he had said before: “Take that which is 
trodden underfoot upon the dung-heap; if you do not, when 
you wish to climb the stairs, you will fall down upon your 
head.” By which he means that if a man will not accept 
what he has cast aside, it will force itself upon him the 
moment he wishes to climb higher. 

What the ancients meant by the lapis has never become 
quite clear. This question can be satisfactorily answered 
only when we know what content of the unconscious it was 
they projected. Today, the psychology of the unconscious 
alone is in a position to solve this riddle. As long as a content 
is in the projected state, it is inaccessible, and this is why 
all the efforts devoted in that bygone age to the alchemistic 
secret have betrayed so little to us. So much the greater, 
however, is the accumulation of symbolic material, and 
hence the reward to the researcher, for this symbolism has 
a more or less direct relation to what we know in psychology 
as the process of individuation . 65 By this I do not mean to 
say that we have in any way come closer to the secret of this 
process, but we see it in a new light, through the medium 
of symbols, clearly enough to make an attempt to save the 
honour of ancient alchemy. 


In dealing with alchemistic philosophy, we must always 
bear in mind that it played an important role in the Middle 
Ages and gave rise to an extensive literature that had a far- 
reaching influence upon the spiritual life of the time. The 
parallel of the lapis to Christ is probably the clearest dem- 
onstration of the extent to which alchemy itself claimed 
to exert such an influence. When, in my discussion, I have 
touched upon subjects that seem to have nothing to do with 
alchemy, this may. be explained — or excused — by these con- 

As soon as we attempt to discuss alchemistic thought in 
its psychological aspects, we must give due importance to 
concatenations that seem very remote from the historical 
material taken at its surface value. By trying to understand 
the historical manifestations from within — which is to say, 
from the standpoint of the psyche — we start from a central 
point where many lines converge, however far apart their 
external sources may lie. We are confronted with the un- 
derlying human psyche, and this, unlike consciousness, has 
hardly changed at all in the course of many centuries; to the 
psyche, a truth of two thousand years ago is still the truth 
of today — it is still living and still effective. We come upon 
the fundamental psychic facts that remain unchanged for 
thousands of years and will remain unchanged for thousands 
of years to come. From this point of view, modern times and 
the present appear as episodes in a drama that began in dark 
prehistory, and that runs through the centuries towards a 
distant future. This drama is an aurora consurgens: human- 
ity’s coming to consciousness. 

The alchemistic process of the classical period (from 
antiquity to the end of the sixteenth century) was a chem- 
ical research into which there entered an admixture of un- 
conscious psychic material by the way of projection. For 
this reason the alchemistic texts frequently emphasize the 
psychological prerequisites for the work. The contents that 


come into consideration are those that suit themselves to 
projection upon the unknown chemical substance. Because 
of the impersonal nature of matter, it was the collective 
.arch etypes that were projected; and first and foremost, as 
the collective spiritual life of those centuries dictated, it was 
the image of the spirit imprisoned in the darkness of the 

This image represents a state of relative unconsciousness 
that causes suffering and calls for redemption; and since 
matter acts as the mirror in which it is recognized, the 
image is treated in material terms. Psychologically consid- 
ered, an unconscious content always embraces the paired 
opposites, being and non-being. Sq we find that the uniting 
of the opposites played a decisive role in. the alchemistic 
process. To the outcome of the process we must grant the 
significance of a reconciling symbol, and such a symbol 
nearly always has about it the awesomeness of the numen . 66 
This being so, we could almost expect the projection of the 
redeemer-image, which is to say, the correspondence of the 
lapis to Christ, and likewise the parallelism between the re- 
deeming work, or officium divinum, and the chemical magis- 
tery. We must, however, note an important difference; for 
the Christian opus is an o per art, to the honour of the re- 
deeming God, on the part of the man who needs redemption, 
while the alchemistic opus is the labour of man the redeemer 
in the cause of the divine world-soul that sleeps in matter 
and awaits redemption. The Christian earns for himself, ex 
opere operato, the fruits of grace. The alchemist, on the 
other hand, achieves, ex opere operands (in the ’literal sense), 
a "life remedy” (Qhpiiaieov farjs ) , which seems to him either 
an ill-concealed substitute for the means of grace of the 
church, or a completion of, and a parallel to, the divine 
work of redemption that is active in man. In the church 
formula of the opus operatum and the opus operantis, we 


find an expression for the two opposed points of view. In 
the last analysis they are irreconcilable. 

We come in the end to the pair of .opposites: collec- 
tivity. and individual, or society and personality. ThiTisa 
modern problem; for it seems as if the building up of col- 
lective life and the unprecedented massing together of men, 
so characteristic of our time, were needed to make the in- 
dividual aware of the fact that he was being strangled in 
the meshes of the organized mob. The collectivism of the 
mediasval church seldom exerted sufficient pressure on the 
individual to turn his relation to society into a universal 
problem. So this question, also, remained undeveloped, at 
the level of projection; and the task of infusing into it at 
least a germ of consciousness, albeit under the mask of a 
neurotic individualism, was left to our own day. 

Alchemy attained a final summit, and the historic turn- 
ing point, in Goethe’s Faust, which from beginning to end is 
saturated with alchemistic forms of thought. The change 
that makes its appearance in Faust is most clearly expressed 
in the scene of Paris and Helen. To the medixval alchemist 
this scene would have meant the mysterious conjunctio of 
Sol and Luna in the retort; but the modern man who figures 
as Faust recognizes the projection, and, putting himself in 
the place of Paris, or Sol, possesses himself of Helen, or 
Luna, his female counterpart. 

Here we unquestionably discover the true reason for the 
fact that, in Goethe’s drama, all the "births” or rejuvenation 
figures— such as the Boy Charioteer, the Homunculus and 
Euphorion — go up in flames and disappear ; and that the final 
rejuvenation takes place only after death, being thus pro- 
jected into the future (as a symbol of the unconscious; . Is it 
really an accident that the figure in which Faust attains his 
own completion bears a name that we have already met 
with: that of one of the outstanding alchemists of the early 


period, "Marianus” — or Morienus, as it is more commonly 

By identifying himself with Paris, Faust transfers the 
alchemistic conjunctio from the projected state to the psy- 
chological sphere of personal experience, and thus to con- 
sciousness. This decisive step means nothing less than the 
unravelling of the alchemistic riddle, and the redemption of 
a previously unconscious part of the personality. But every 
increase in consciousness carries with it the danger of infla- 
tion, and the latter shows itself unmistakably in Faust’s 
superhuman powers. His death was necessary in the circum- 
stances of his day and age, but it was hardly a satisfactory 
answer. Birth, and transformation, which follow the con- 
junctio, took place in the life after death — that is to say, 
in the unconscious. 

Here was an unsolved problem which Nietzsche took 
up again in Z arathustra: the transformation into the super- 
man. But Nietzsche came dangerously near to making it a 
worldly problem, and inevitably imbued his writing with 
Antichristian resentment. His superman is an aggravated 
form of the individual consciousness that must necessarily 
collide with the collective power of Christianity and lead 
to the catastrophic destruction of the individual. We know 
beyond peradventure, from the symptoms of his disease, that 
Nietzsche himself suffered this fate tam ethice quam physice. 
And what did the age to come have to offer in place of the 
individu ^lism- nf Nietzsche’s superman? It offered a collec- 
tivism, an aggregation of masses of people, that dwarfed 
anything of the sort that had gone before — and it offered 
this collective organization tam ethice quam physice. The 
unembellished balance sheet of our time shows us, on the 
one hand, the stifling of the personality and, on the other, a 
Christianity that is impotent and carries a perhaps fatal 

Faust’s sin was his identification with that which is to 



be transformed — and that which has been transformed. 
Nietzsche overshot the mark by identifying with the super- 
man, Zarathustra, the component of the personality that is 
just coming to consciousness. But may we call Zarathustra a 
component of the personality? Is he not rather superhuman- 
ity — something which man is not, though he has his share 
in it? But then we must ask whether the God is really dead, 
of whom Nietzsche said that he has not been heard of for 
a long time. For it may be that he has come back again in 
the disguise of the "superhuman.” 

Faust again, in his blind reaching after the superman, 
brought about the murder of Philemon and Baucis. But who 
are these two humble old people? When the world had been 
bereft of gods, and would no longer offer a hospitable re- 
treat to the divine strangers, Jupiter and Mercury, it was 
Philemon and Baucis who received the superhuman guests. 
And when Baucis was about to sacrifice for them her last 
goose, the transformation took place: the gods made them- 
selves manifest, the humble cottage was changed into a 
temple, and the old couple became immortal servitors at 
the shrine. 

The ancient alchemists, in a sense, stood nearer than 
Faust to the central truth of the psyche when they strove 
to redeem the fiery spirit from the chemical elements, and 
treated the mysterium as if it lay in the dark and silent 
bosom of nature. It was still outside themselves. To be sure, 
the development of consciousness, with its thrust upward, 
had to put an end to this projection, and to restore to the 
psyche what from the very beginning was of a psychic na- 
ture. But, from the Age of Enlightenment onward, and in 
the epoch of scientific rationalism, what was the psyche? It 
had become synonymous with consciousness. The psyche was 
"what I know.” There was no psyche outside the ego. In- 
evitably, then, the ego identified itself with contents re- 
stored to the psyche by the withdrawal of the projection. 


Gone were the times when the psyche was still for the most 
part "outside the body” — and still "imagined those greater 
things” that the body could not grasp. The contents of the 
former projection must now appear as personal possessions, 
as delusive fantasy pictures belonging to the ego-conscious- 
ness. The fire was chilled into air, and the air became the 
wind of Zarathustra and caused an inflation of consciousness 
that can apparently be checked only by the most terrible 
catastrophes to civilization — nothing less than the deluge 
with which the gods visited inhospitable humanity. 

An inflated consciousness is always egocentric — never 
aware of anything but its own presence. It is incapable of 
learning from the past; incapable of grasping what is hap- 
pening in the present, and of drawing correct conclusions 
for the future. It is hypnotized by itself, and therefore can- 
not be argued with. It is doomed to call upon itself catas- 
trophes that strike it dead. Paradoxically enough, inflation 
means that consciousness has become unconscious. This is 
the case whenever consciousness takes upon itself the credit 
and responsibility for contents of the unconscious, and, loses 
that ability to differentiate which is indispensable to its ex- 

When the fate of Europe carried it into a four years’ 
war of stupendous horror — a war that no one wanted — 
hardly anyone asked who had caused the war and its con- 
tinuation. No one realized that European man was pos- 
sessed by something that robbed him of free choice. This 
state of unconscious possession will, no doubt, continue un- 
checked until at last European man becomes "afraid of his 
God-almightiness.” But this is a change that can begin only 
with individuals, since masse s — as we know only too well — 
a re blind beasts. 

It seems to me of some importance that individuals, or 
people individually, are beginning to understand that there 
exist contents that do not belong to the ego-personality, but 


are rather to be ascribed to a psychic non-ego. We must 
always come to this recognition if we wish to avoid a threat- 
ening inflation. To help us, we always have the useful and 
edifying pattern held up to us by the poets and philosophers 
patterns or archetypes that one may well call remedies 
both for men and for times. What the archetypes show is, 
of course, nothing that can be held up to the masses, but 
always something hidden that we may set before ourselves 
in the private silence. But hardly anyone wants to know 
anything about this, for it is so much more convenient to 
proclaim the panacea for the ten thousand others; it is not 
necessary, then, to apply it to himself. And as we know, all 
suffering has an end when enough of us are exposed to it. 
No doubts can exist in the herd, and the greater multitude 
always has the better truth — but also the greater catas- 

What we may learn from the archetypes is this: the 
psyche harbours contents, and is exposed to influences, the 
assimilation of which may be attended by serious dangers. 
The ancient alchemists ascribed their secret to matter itself; 
and neither Faust nor Zarathustra is an encouraging exam- 
ple, should we be tempted to embody such a secret in the 
personal ego. Our part, then, surely, is to repudiate the 
arrogant claim of consciousness to be the whole of the 
psyche, and to grant the psyche a definite actuality, even 
if we cannot fully grasp it with our present means of under- 
standing. I do not call the man who admits his lack of knowl- 
edge an obscurantist; I think it is much rather the man 
whose consciousness has not developed so far that he is aware 
of his lack of knowledge. I hold the view that the alchemist’s 
hope of producing from matter the philosophical gold, or 
the panacea, or the wondrous stone, was only in part an 
illusion, an effect of projection; for the rest it corresponded 
to certain psychic facts that are of great importance in the 
study of the unconscious. As is shown by his texts and the 


symbolism they contain, the alchemist projected what I call 
the process of individuation upon the processes of chemical 
transformation. If I use "individuation” as a scientific term, 
this does not mean that we are dealing with a matter of 
which our knowledge is complete and sufficient . 67 It merely 
indicates an obscure field of research that calls for further 
study; it refers to the unconscious centralizing processes that 
form the personality. 

We are dealing here with life processes endowed with 
the awesomeness of the numen, which, because of this very 
quality, have always been the most significant agents in the 
formation of symbols. These processes are mysterious to the 
extent in which they throw up problems that the human 
understanding will long, and perhaps vainly, strive to solve. 
We may well wonder whether, in the last analysis, the hu- 
man intelligence is the suitable instrument for this task. It 
was not for nothing that alchemy called itself an art ; it was 
right in the feeling that it was dealing with creative processes 
that can be fully grasped only in experience, although the 
intellect may designate them. Let us not forget that it was 
alchemy that coined the admonition: 

Rum pit e libros , ne cor da vestra rumpantur , 68 


1. The author’s footnotes to the German edition ( Eranos-Jahrbuch , 193 6. Zurich: 
Rhein- Verlag) provide the reader with complete source references to the alchemistic 
texts, as well as with full quotation in the original tongues of the passages cited. The 
present English edition has preserved only those of the author’s marginal comments that 
amplify his interpretation of the texts or deal with his psychology in general. [Trans- 
lator's note.] 

2. The Rosarium Philosophorum, as secunda pars Alchemiee, is such a theoria in the 
proper sense of vision, contemplation, (for example, the contemplating of scenes on the 
stage, etc.). 

3. Eranos-J abrbuch, 1933. Zurich: Rhein-Verlag. 

4. Problems of Mysticism and Its Symbolism . New York: Moffat, Yard and Com- 
pany, 19x7. 

3. Even in the twentieth century Gustav Meyrink, author of The Golem , still 
believed in the alchemistic methods. There is a remarkable account of his own experi- 


ments in the introduction to Thomas von Aquino , Abhandlung uber den Stein der 
Weisen, pp. aj ff. Leipzig: Barth-Verlag, 192;. 

6. There is a relation between this and the stipulation that the laboratory worker 
should be free from corporeal blemishes, should not be crippled in any way, etc. 

7. Pone ergo mentem tuam super salem , nec cogites de aliis. Nam in ipsa sola 
occultatur scientia fif arcanum precipuum, & secretissimum omnium antiquorum Philo- 
sophorum. Several editions of the Rosarium have ipsa sola. 

8. Compare the sal sapientie , which, according to ancient rite, was handed to the 
person presenting himself for baptism. 

9. Morienus (Morienes or Marianus) was supposed to have been the teacher of the 
Omayyad prince Khalid ben Yezid (635-704). 

10. I refer the reader to my treatment of the subject in The Relation of the Ego 
to the Unconscious in Two Essays on Analytical Psychology. London: Baijliire, Tindall 
and Cox, 1928. 

11. Compare to this the Mohammedan legend of the stone in the Mosque of Omar 
(Jerusalem). When Mohammed ascended to Heaven it wanted to fly with him. 

12. Arthur Avalon, The Serpent Power, 1919. Madras: Ganesh & Company, 1924. 

13. In a similar way, it is held, Christ is "imagined” in us. 

14. Ripley says that all "our secrets” have arisen from an "image” (imago). 

15. We can form some idea of such visions after the pattern of the one which 
Benvenuto Cellini describes in his autobiography: "One day when I was about five years 
old, my father was sitting in a ground-floor room of ours in which washing had been 
going on, and where a large fire of oak logs had been lefr; ... his viola on his arm, 
[he] was playing and singing by himself near the fire — for it was very cold. Looking 
into the fire he chanced 10 see in the middle of the most ardent flames a little creature 
like a lizard disporting itself in the midst of the intensest heat. Suddenly aware of what 
it was, he called my sister and me and pointed it out to us children. Then he gave me 
a sound box on the ears, which made me cry bitterly, on which he soothed me with 
kind words, saying: 'My dear little fellow, I did not hurt you for any harm you had 
done, but only that you might remember that the lizard in the fire there is a salamander, 
which never has been seen for a certainty by anyone before.* Then he kissed me and 
gave me some farthings.’* The Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini , translated by Anne 
Macdonell, Everyman’s Library. 

16. See my discussion of the reconciling symbol in Psychological Types . New York: 
Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1923. 

17. Here, no doubt, we enter the realm of Neo-Pythagorean ideas. That the soul- 
pneuma has a penetrating quality that enabled it to permeate all bodies was, according 
to Zeller, taught by dEncsidesnu*. He also conceived the primal stuff as hrjp, air, cor- 
responding to the rruevpa of the Stoics. The pneumatic (wind) nature of Hermes is 
indicated by his possession of wings. Alexander Polyhistor taught that Hermes guided 
the souls to the highest; the impure are bound by the Erinnyes in the underworld in 
unbreakable chains (the imperfect who are "bound in Hades ). 

18. In the syncretistic Greek writings, the ideas of the vov s and the wvtvpa are 
used interchangeably. The older meaning of uvevpa is wind; it is a phenomenon of the 
air, and from this comes the equivalence of d^p and uvtvpa (Zeller). Anaximenes held 
the primal matter to be Mp; to Archelaus, the pupif of Anaxagoras, God was both 
dfa and voDs. To Anaxagoras, the creator of the world was uovsi it gave rise to a 
whirlpool in chaos, and thus caused the separation of aether and air. 


19. According to the Neo-Pythagorean view, even the godhead is of a hermaph- 
roditic nature (Zeller). 

to. The main points of comparison are the following: Osiris as God incarnated 
in man; his relation to wheat (holy wafer), his dismemberment and resurrection. As to 
Orpheus, his taming of the passionate instincts; the fisherman, the good shepherd, the 
teacher of wisdom, the fate qf being rent asunder. As to Dionysus, his relation to wine, 
ecstatic revelations, the fish symbolism, his dismemberment and resurrection. As to 
Heracles, his subjection to Eurystheus and Omphale, the heavy labour (chiefly the 
liberation of tormented humanity from evils), the construction of symmetrical spaces 
and of the cross-form (the cardinal points in labours 7 to xo, the vertical in labours 
xx and 12 — compare the Paulinian allusion in Ephesians 3:18), his self-cremation and 
divine sublimatio >. 

ax. As, for instance, in the Polynesian myths centring around Maui. 

22. See Grenfell and Hunt, New Sayings of Jesus. Oxford: 1904. "Jesus saith: 
(Ye ask? who are those) that draw us (to the kingdom, if) the kingdom is in heaven? 
. . . the fowls of the air, and all the beasts that are under the earth or upon the 
earth, and the fishes of the sea . . ." 

23. In the Ripley Scroll the sphere of water is represented with dragon’s wings. 
The motto reads: "He goes round as a ball." Brit. Museum, Ms. Additional 10 302. 

24. The name Arisleus is a corruption of Archelaus, owing to Arabic transcription. 

25. Also Gabricus, Gabricius, Cabricius, Cabritis, Kybric — Arabic: kibrit — sul- 
phur. Beja, Veya, Beua — Arabic: al-baida = the white one. 

26. The "whole” or the "self” embraces conscious and unconscious contents. See 
The Relation of the Ego to the Unconscious in Two Essays on Analytical Psychology. 

27. The evidence leaves us no room for doubt* that when the philosophers used the 
terms divitue , salus , and bona futures, these terms are to be taken not only in the 
spiritual sense, as salvation of the soul, but also as physical well-being in every respect. 
We must not forget that the alchemist had no intention of inflicting moral torture 
upon himself on the assumption that man is a sinful nothing who complies with God’s 
work of salvation by adopting an unobjectionable, ethical conduct. He finds himself in 
the rflle of a "redeemer,” whose opus divinum is rather a continuation of the divine 
work of redemption than a preventive measure taken against eventual damnation on 
the day of judgement. 

28. Sec Jung, Psychology of the Unconscious . New York: Moffat, Yard & Com- 
pany, 1916. 

29. The idea that the ens primum contained the opposites was universally held. 
In China the pair of opposites is yang and yin, odd and even numbers, heaven and 
earth, etc. Compare the union of the opposites in the hermaphrodite (Hastings, Encyclo- 
pedia of Religion and Ethics, iv, 140). In Empedocles, veucos and </>tX£a pf the ele- 
ments (Zeus ss fire, Hera = air) . In the second period of creation arise hybrids resembling 
the Nordic Ymir and Buri (Hermann). In Neo-Pythagorean thought Monas is mas- 
culine, Dyas feminine (Zeller). In Nicomachus .the godhead is even and odd number, 
and therefore androgynous (Zeller). Hermes Trismegistus: The nous is hermaphroditic. 
Among the Ophites the pneuma was androgynous. 

30. The fear of ghosts means, in psychology, the overpowering of consciousness 
by the autonomous contents Of the unconscious. This is the equivalent of mental 


31. For the quadratic enclosure as the domain of the psyche, see Chapter Four. 
According to Pythagoras, the soul is a square (Zeller). 

32. Symbolized by a magically enchanting woman or by dissolute girls. Similar 
themes are treated in Chapter Four. 

33. Compare to this the interesting idea of autofecondation in Uon Daudet’s 

34. Another version of the devouring- Mars feeds the king’s body to the famished 
wolf, the son of Saturn (lead). The wolf symbolizes the appetite of the materia prima 
for the king, who often takes the place of the son. 

3J. See Psychology of the Unconscious. 

36. Compare the feeding with honey and milk of those presenting themselves 
for baptism in early Christian ritual. 

37. "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” I Corinthians 


38. See Psychology of the Unconscious. 

39. An analogous idea is to be found in Emerson’s Essay: "History.” 

40. The heart and the blood as the seat of the soul. 

41. In Indian thought we meet with che corresponding idea of the "swan." 

42. In Chapter Three, "Archctvpes of the Collective Unconscious.” 

43. These two categories correspond, in psychology, to conscious comprehension 
based upon sense data, and to the projection of unconscious contents. The latter is fitly 
designated by the "heart,” for the heart region represents an earlier localization of 
consciousness, and, even at a more developed stage, still harbours the thoughts that are 
charged with emotion — that is, the contents that are strongly under the influence of the 

44. The "sea” of the philosophers. Hermes was called a mare sapientice. 

43. From the "stone” from which the pneumatic spark flies there flows also the 
healing water. In later alchemistic literature this stone is often compared to Christ. 

46. I have reduced the text to its essentials by omitting all subsidiary and merely 
ornamental matter. 

47. The wine is here the medicina catholica, the panacea. Like the lapis, so also 
the miraculous healing draught increases or completes itself, generally by the help of 
the art. 

48. The philosophers. 

49. Instead of "the foundation of the world” (Matthew 23:34) we have here the 
beginning of the alchemistic opus. 

30. The sun. 

31. Perhaps a reference to Venus and Mars, caught in the net of Vulcan. 

32. The conjunction of Mercury with what? Perhaps the conjunction of two 
Mercuries, the <? and the 9 . We seem to have before us the union of Sol with 
Luna, Mars, and Mercury. 

33. The peculiar substance with which Mary the Prophetess, sifter of Moses, 
is supposed to have occupied herself. 

54. Presumably Sol, perhaps in the form of "resin. * 

33. The caput mortuum , the head of Osiris in the state of nigredo. 

5 6. Calcination probably corresponds to incineration, and the glowing of the ash 
approaches to vitrification. This operation is also connected with Mary. 

37. Compare what was said above about Christ’s relation to the fire? I should add 

28 o 


that Melchior recommends the reading of Luke 10 before the Credo. This chapter bears 
no apparent relation to Melchior's theme, but closes with these significant words: "But 
one thing is needful: for Mary hath chosen the good part, which shall not be taken 
away from her.” 

58. That the experience was of a subjective nature is .shown by the author's inci- 
dental remark: et scio quod verum est testimonium ejus. 

39. The Vulgate says: sub pennis. The feathers of th$ phoenix and of other birds 
have an important place in Ripley's writings and in alchemy in general. 

60. The wounding of the lion means his sacrifice and mortification in the process. 
He is also pictured in a maimed condition, with his paws chopped off. Compare also 
the wounded unicorn lying in the lap of the Virgin. 

61. It is still an open question for me whether Germanic influences are to be 
found in alchemy; think of the tree symbolism (Odin upon the trecl). 

62. Compare the vision of Guillaume de Digulleville, in Chapter Four. 

6 3. fcodex Germanicus, number y 9 8 in the state library of Munich. 

6 4. Wilhelm and Jung, The Secret of the Golden Flower. New York: Harcourt, 
Brace and Company, 1931; London: George Routledge and SoinsjLtd, 1931. 

6 y. See Chapter Four, where I have presented an "aichcmistic'' dream series. It 
shows us that the philosopher’s stone is one- of the many symbols of the Self. 

66. See Chapter V of Psychological Types. 

67. Psychological Types , "Definitions: Individuation.” 

68. "Rend the books, lest your hearts be rent asunder.” 


The Development of Personality 

Folk and serf and conqueror 
These concede in every age: 

The sons of earth find greatest joy 
In personality alone . 

In somewhat free-handed fashion the last two verses 
of Goethe’s stanza are often quoted: 

Hochstes Gluck dcr Erdenkinder 
Set nur die Eersonlichkeitd 

This gives expression to the view that everyone’s ultimate 
aim and strongest desire lie in developing the fullness of hu- 
man existence that is called personality. "Education to per- 
sonality” has become a pedagogical ideal that turns its back 
upon the standardized — the collective and normal — human 
being. It thus fittingly recognizes the historical fact that 
the great, liberating deeds of world history have come from 
leading personalities and never from the inert mass that is 
secondary at all times and needs the demagogue if it is to 
move at all. The paean of the Italian nation is addressed to 
the personality of the Duce, and the dirges of ether nations 
lament the absence of great leaders . 2 

The yearning for personality has become a real prob- 
lem that occupies many minds today, whereas earlier there 
was only one man who foresaw this question Friedrich 

Schiller — and his letters on aesthetic education have lain dor- 



mant like a Sleeping Beauty of literature while more than 
a century has passed. 

We may confidently assert that the Holy Roman Em- 
pire of the German nation has taken no notice of Friedrich 
Schiller as an educator. On the contrary, the furor teutoni- 
cs has thrown itself upon pedagogy — the education of chil- 
dren — has practised child psychology, ferreted out the in- 
fantile elements in the adult, and thus made of childhood 
such an important condition of life and fate that beside it 
the creative meaning and possibilities of later, grown-up 
existence were completely overshadowed. Our own time has 
even been exuberantly lauded as the age of the child. This 
boundless extension and expansion of the kindergarten is 
equivalent to complete forgetfulness of the problems of edu- 
cation divined by the genius of Schiller. 

No one will deny or even underestimate the importance 
of childhood years; the severe injuries, often lasting through 
life, caused by a nonsensical upbringing at home and in 
school are too obvious, and the need for reasonable pedagogic 
methods is too urgent. But if this evil is to be attacked at 
the root, one must in all seriousness propose the question of 
how it came about, and still comes about, that stupid and 
limited methods of education are employed. Obviously it is 
for the one and only reason that there exist stupid educa- 
tors who are not human beings, but personified automatons 
of method. Whoever wishes to educate should himself be 
educated. But learning by heart and the mechanical applica- 
tion of methods, which is still practised today, is no educa- 
tion, either for the child or for the educator himself. 

People are constantly saying that the child should be 
reared to personality. Of course, 1 admire this lofty educa- 
tional ideal. But who rears children to personality? In the 
first and most important place we have the ordinary, in- 
competent parents who are often themselves, all their lives, 
partly or wholly children. Who would expect in the last 


analysis that all the ordinary parents should be “personali- 
ties,” and who has ever thought of devising methods for in- 
stilling personality into the parents? So we naturally expect 
more of the pedagogue, of the trained professional upon 
whom psychology has been grafted for better or worse in 
the form of viewpoints of this or that denomination, usually 
diametrically opposed, as to how the child is presumably 
constituted and is to be handled. It is presupposed that the 
young people who have chosen pedagogy as their occupation 
in life are themselves brought up. No one, surely, will choose 
to assert that they are one and all personalities as well. By 
and large, they have themselves had the same defective up- 
bringing as the children they are supposed to instruct, and 
as a rule are no more personalities than these. 

In general, our approach to education suffers from a 
one-sided emphasis upon the child who is to be brought up, 
and from an equally one-sided lack of emphasis upon the 
deficient upbringing of the adult educator. Everyone who 
has finished his course of studies appears to himself to be 
fully brought up — which is to say, grown up. He must ap- 
pear so to himself; he must have this solid conviction of 
his own competence in order to hold his ground in the strug- 
gle for existence. Doubt and feelings of uncertainty would 
cripple and hinder him, would undermine the necessary be- 
lief iti his own authority and unfit him for the professional 
life. Moreover, he is expected to be able and confident, and 
not to have doubts of himself and his capability. The ex- 
pert is simply condemned to unhesitating competence. 

Everyone knows that these are not ideal conditions. But 
under the given circumstances we may say, with some reser- 
vations, that they are the best possible. We cannot conceive 
how they could be different. We simply cannot expect more 
from the average educator than from the average parent. 
If they are good in their profession, we have to content our- 


284 the integration of the personality 

selves with that, just as with parents who bring up their 
children as well as they can. 

It is best not to apply to children the high ideal of edu- 
cation to personality. For what is generally understood by 
personality — namely, a definitely shaped, psychic abun- 
dance, capable of resistance and endowed with energy — is an 
adult ideal. It is only in an age when the individual is still 
unconscious of the problem of his so-called adulthood, or 
— still worse — when he consciously evades it, that people 
could wish to foist this ideal upon childhood. In fact, I sus- 
pect our contemporary pedagogical and psychological en- 
thusiasm for the child of a dishonourable intent: people 
speak of the child, but should mean the child in the 
grownup. For in the adult there is hidden a child — an eternal 
child, something that is always becoming, is never completed, 
and that calls for unceasing care, attention, and fostering. 
This is the part of human personality that wishes to develop 
and to complete itself. 

But the human being of our time is as far from this 
completion as heaven is from earth. Darkly divining his 
own defect, he seizes upon the education of children and 
fervently devotes himself to child psychology on the favour- 
ite assumption that something must have gone wrong in 
his own upbringing and childhood development — something 
that can be weeded out in the next generation. This purpose 
is praiseworthy, to be sure, but it comes to shipwreck against 
the psychological fact that we cannot correct in a child 
a fault that we ourselves still commit. Children, of course, 
are not so stupid as we believe. They notice only too well 
what is genuine and what is not. Andersen's fairy tale about 
the king's new clothes contains an immortal truth. 

How many parents have announced to me the laudable 
intention of sparing their children the experiences they had 
to go through in their own childhood! And when I asked, 
“But are you sure that you have yourself overcome these 


mistakes?” they were firmly persuaded that the damage had 
.long ago been corrected in them. Actually, however, it was 
not. If as children they had been brought up too severely, 
then they spoiled their own children with a tolerance that 
bordered upon bad taste; if in childhood certain realms of 
life had been painfully concealed from them, these were 
then thrown open to their own children by methods of en- 
lightenment that were just as painful. Thus they had sim- 
ply fallen into the other extreme, the strongest of all evi- 
dence for the tragic survival of the old sin. This they had 
wholly failed to see. 

If there is anything that we wish to change in the child, 
we should first examine it and see whether it is not some- 
thing that could better be changed in ourselves. As an ex- 
ample, take our enthusiasm for pedagogy. Perhaps we mis- 
construe the pedagogical need, because it would remind us 
uncomfortably that we are ourselves still children in some 
ways and are in urgent want of bringing up. 

In any case, this doubt seems to be thoroughly pertinent 
if we set out to educate mere children to the end of be- 
coming personalities. Personality is a germ in the child that 
can develop only by slow stages in and through life. No 
personality is manifested without definiteness, fnlliiess, and 
maturity. These three characteristics do not, and should 
not, fit the child, for they would rob it of its childhood. It 
would become an unnatural, precocious pseudo adult; yet 
modern education has already turned out such monsters, 
especially in those cases where the parents have set them- 
selves with true fanaticism always and ever to do their 
"best” for the children and “to live only for them.” This 
ideal, which is so often appealed to, most effectively prevents 
the parents from developing themselves, and enables them 
to force their own "best” upon the children. But this so- 
called best is actually what the parents have most badly 
neglected in themselves. In this way the children are goaded 


on to achievements that the parents have never compassed, 
and ambitions are loaded upon them that the parents have 
never fulfilled. Such methods and ideals engender educa- 
tional monstrosities. 

No one can educate to personality who does not him- 
self have it. And not the child, but only the adult can at- 
tain personality as the mature fruit of an accomplishment 
of life that is directed to this end. The achievement of per- 
sonality means nothing less than the best possible develop- 
ment of all that lies in a particular, single being. It is impos- 
sible to foresee what an infinite number of conditions must 
be fulfilled to bring this about. A whole human life span in 
all its biological, social, and spiritual aspects is needed. Per- 
sonality is the highest realization of the inborn distinctive- 
ness of the particular living being. Personality is an act of 
the greatest courage in die face of life, and means uncon- 
ditional affirmation of all that constitutes the individual, the 
most successful adaptation to the universal conditions of 
human existence, with the greatest possible freedom of per- 
sonal decision. 

To educate someone to this seems to me to be no small 
matter. It is surely the heaviest task that the spiritual world 
of today has set itself. And, indeed, it is a dangerous task — 
dangerous to a degree that Schiller himself was far from 
suspecting, though his prophetic foresight made him the first 
who dared confront these problems. It is as dangerous as 
the bold and unconsiderate undertaking of nature to let 
women bear children. Would it not be a sacrilegious, Pro- 
methean, or even Luciferian enterprise if a superman should 
venture in his alchemistic retort to give rise to a homunculus, 
who would then grow into a golem? And yet he would 
only be doing what nature does every day. There is no hu- 
man horror or abnormity that did not lie in the womb of 
a loving mpther. As the sun shines upon the just and the 
unjust, and as women who bear and give suck protect the 


children of God and of the devil with equal love, uncon- 
cerned about the possible results, so we, too, are parts of 
this singular nature and, like it, carry within us the unpre- 

Personality develops itself in the course of life from 
germs that are hard or impossible to discern, and it is only 
our actions that reveal who we are. We are like the sun 
that nourishes the life of the earth and brings forth every 
kind of lovely, strange, and evil thing; we are like the 
mothers who bear in their wombs unknown happiness and 
suffering. At first we do not know what deeds or misdeeds, 
what destiny, what good or evil we contain, and only the 
autumn can show what the spring has engendered; only in 
the evening will it be seen what the morning began. 

Personality as a complete realization of the fullness 
of our being is an unattainable ideal. But unattainability* is 
no counterargument against an ideal, for ideals areonlysign.- 
pos t^ never goals. 

As the child must develop in order to be brought up, 
so the personality must first unfold before it can be sub- 
jected to education. And here the danger already begins. 
We are dealing with something unpredictable; we do not 
know how and in what direction the budding personality 
will develop, and we have learned enough of nature and- 
the reality of the world to be rightly somewhat distrustful. 
We have been brought up in the Christian teaching of be- 
lief in the original evil of human nature. But even persons 
who no longer hold to the Christian teaching are naturally 
distrustful and anxious with regard to the possibilities that 
lie in the underground chambers of their being. Even en- 
lightened, materialistic psychologists like Freud give us a 
very unpleasant picture of the things that slumber in the 
background and in the depths of human nature. It is, there- 
fore, something of a hazard to put in a good word for the 
unfolding of personality. But the human spirit is full of the 


strangest contradictions. 'We praise "sacred motherhood” 
and never think of holding it responsible for all such hu- 
man monsters as criminals, the dangerously insane, epilep- 
tics, idiots, and cripples of every kind who yet are born. 
But we are beset by the most serious doubts when it comes 
to granting a free development to human personality. "But 
then anything would be possible,” people say. Or they warm 
up the feeble objection of "individualism.” Yet individual- 
isrp has never been a natural development, but only an 
unnatural usurpation, an unadapted, impertinent pose that 
often proves its hollowness with collapse before the slightest 
obstacle. Here we are dealing with something else. 

Now, no one develops his personality because someone 
told him it would be useful or advisable for him to do so. 
Nature has never yet allowed herself to be imposed upon 
by well-meaning advice. Only coercion working through 
causal connections moves nature, and human nature also. 
Nothing changes itself without need, and human personal- 
ity least of all. It is immensely conservative, not to say 
inert. Only the sharpest need is able to rouse it. The de- 
velopment of personality obeys no wish, no command, and 
no insight, but only need; it wants the motivating coercion 
of inner or outer necessities. Any other development would 
be individualism. This is why the accusation of individual- 
ism is a cheap insult when it is raised against the natural 
development of personality. 

The saying, "For many are called, but few are chosen,” 
applies here as nowhere else; for the development of per- 
sonality from its germinal state to full consciousness is at 
once a charism and a curse. Its first result is the conscious 
and unavoidable separation of the single being from the 
undifferentiated and unconscious herd. This means isolation, 
and there is no more comforting word for it. Neither fam- 
ily, nor society, nor position can save him from it, nor the 
most successful adaptation to actual surroundings, nor yet 


the most frictionless fitting in with them. The development 
of personality is a favour that must be paid for dearly. But 
people who talk the most about the development of per- 
sonality are those who least consider the results, which are 
such as to frighten away all weaker spirits. 

Yet the development of personality means more than 
the mere fear of bringing monsters into the world, or the 
fear, of isolation. It also means fidelity to the law of one’s 

For the word "fidelity” I should prefer, in this con- 
nection, to use the Greek word of the New Testament, 
it'kttis, which is mistakenly translated as "faith.” It really 
means trust, trustful loyalty. Fidelity to the law of one’s 
being is a trust in this law, a loyal perseverance and trustful 
hope; in short, such an attitude as a religious man should 
have to God. And now it becomes apparent that a dilemma 
heavily weighted with consequences emerges from behind 
our problem: personality can never develop itself unless the j 
individual chooses his own way consciously and with con-, jj 
scious, moral decision. Not only the causal motive, the need, 
but a conscious, moral decision must lend its strength to 
the process of the development of personality. If the first, 
that is, need, is lacking, then the so-called development 
would be mere acrobatics of the will; if the latter is missing, 
that is, the conscious decision, then the development will 
come to rest in a stupefying, unconscious automatism. But 
a man can make a moral choice of his own way only when 
he holds it to be the best. If any other way were held to 
be better, then he would live and develop that other per- 
sonality in place of his own. The other ways are the con- 
ventions of a moral, social, political, philosophic, or re- 
ligious nature. The fact that the conventions always flourish 
in one form or another proves that the overwhelming ma- 
jority of mankind chooses not its own way, but the con- 


ventions, and so does- not develop itself, but a method and 
a collectivity at the cost of its own fullness. 

Just as the psychic and social life of mankind at a primi- 
tive level is exclusively a group life with a high degree of 
unconsciousness in the individual, so the later historical 
process of development is also a collective matter and will, 
no doubt, remain so. This is why I believe in convention as 
a collective necessity. It is a makeshift and not an ideal, 
whether in respect to morals or religion, for subjection to 
it always means repudiation of wholeness and a flight from 
the final consequences of one’s own being. 

To undertake to develop personality is in fact an un- 
popular venture, an uncongenial deviation from the high- 
way, an idiosyncrasy smacking of the recluse — or so it seems 
to those who stand outside. No wonder, then, that from the 
beginning only the few have hit upon this strange adven- 
ture. If they had all been fools, we could drop them from 
the field of vision of our interest as ISicorai, as persons who 
have retired from spiritual activity. But, unfortunately, 
personalities are as a rule the legendary heroes of mankind, 
those who are wondered at, loved, and worshipped, the 
true sons of God whose “names do not perish in aeons.” They 
are the true blossoms and fruits of the tree of humanity, the 
seeds that continue to engender. 

The reference to historical personalities sufficiently ex- 
plains why growth into personality is an ideal, and why the 
accusation of individualism is an insult. The greatness of 
historical personalities has never consisted in their uncon- 
ditional subjection to convention, but, on the contrary, in 
their liberating freedom from convention. They thrust 
themselves up like mountain peaks out of the mass that 
clung to its collective fears, convictions, laws and methods, 
and chose their own way. And to the ordinary human being 
it always seemed wonderful that someone should prefer to 
*the beaten track, with its known destination, a small and 



steep path that leads into the unknown. This is why it was 
always believed that such a naan, if not out of his mind, was 
yet inhabited by a demon or god; the miracle of a man act- 
ing otherwise than in the way humanity had always acted 
could be explained only as due to his being gifted with 
demonic power or divine spirit. For what, except a god, 
could counterbalance the dead weight of the whole of man- 
kind and eternal habit? From the beginning, therefore, the 
heroes had demonic attributes. According to the Nordic con- 
ception they had serpents’ eyes, and their birth or deriva- 
tion was strange; certain ancient Greek heroes had serpent 
souls, others had a personal demon, were magicians or the 
chosen of God. All these attributes, and many more that 
could be cited, show that for the ordinary man the com- 
manding personality is a supernatural manifestation, as we 
may call it, and one that can be explained only by the super- 
vention of a demonic factor. 

What, in the last analysis, induces a man to choose his 
own way and so to climb out of unconscious identity with 
the mass as out of a fog bank? It cannot be necessity, for 
necessity comes to many and they all save themselves in con- 
vention. It cannot be moral choice, for as a rule a man de- 
cides for convention. What is it, then, that inexorably tilts 
the beam in favour of the extraordinary ? 

It is what is called vocation: an irrational factor that 
fatefully forces a man to emancipate himself from the herd 
and its trodden paths. True personality always has vocation 
and believes in it, has fidelity to it as to God, in spite of 
the fact that, as the ordinary man would say, it is only a 
feeling of individual vocation. But this vocation acts like 
a law of God from which there is no escape. That many go 
to ruin upon their own ways means nothing to him who 
has vocation. He must obey his own law, as if it were a 
flpmnn that whisperingly indicated to him new and strange 
ways. Who has vocation hears the voice of the inner man; 


he is called. And so it is the legendary belief that he pos- 
sesses a private demon who counsels him and whose mandates 
he must execute. A familiar example of this kind is Faust, 
and a historic case is the "daimon” of Socrates. Primitive 
medicine men have their snake spirits, and Aesculapius, the 
patron of doctors, is represented by the serpent of Epi- 
daurus. Moreover, he had the Cabir Telesphoros as his pri- 
vate demon to read the recipes to him, as was supposed — 
that is, to inspire him. 

Ta have vocation means in the original sense to he ad- 
dressed by a voice. We find the clearest examples of this in 
the confessions of the Old Testament prophets. Nor is this 
merely an ancient manner of speech, as is shown by the con 
Sessions of historic personalities such as Goethe and Na- 
poleon, to mention two familiar examples, who made no se- 
cret of their feeling of vocation. 

Now, vocation, or the feeling of vocation, is not per- 
chance the prerogative of great personalities, but also belongs 
to the small ones all the way down to the duodecimo format; 
only, with the decrease of proportions, it becomes more 
veiled and unconscious. It is as if the voice of the inner 
demon moved further and further off and spoke more rarely 
and indistinctly. The smaller the personality is, so much the 
more unclear and unconscious it becomes, till it finally 
merges into one with society, surrendering its own whole- 
ness and dissolving instead into the wholeness of the group. 
In the place of the inner voice appears the voice of the 
social group and its conventions, and in the place of voca- 
tion, the collective necessities. ■ 

But it happens to not a few, even in this unconscious 
social state, to be summoned by the individual voice, where- 
upon they are at once differentiated from the others and 
feel themselves confronted by a problem that the others do 
not know about. It is generally impossible for a man to 
explain to his fellow beings what has happened, for under- 


standing is cut off by a wall of the strongest prejudices. “I 
am just like everyone else”; there is "no such thing,” or if 
there is, then, of course, it is "morbid” and moreover quite 
inexpedient; it is "a monstrous presumption to suppose that 
anything of that sort could have any significance”; indeed, 
it is “nothing but psychology.” 

This last objection is highly popular today. It arises 
from a singular undervaluation of psychic life, which people 
apparently regard as something personal, arbitrary, and 
therefore completely futile. And this, paradoxically enough, 
along with the present-day enthusiasm for psychology. After 
all, the unconscious is “nothing but fantasy”! He "merely 
thought” so and so, etc. People take themselves for magi- 
cians who conjure the psychic hither and yon and mould 
it to suit their moods. They deny what is uncomfortable, 
sublimate the unwished for, explain away anything that 
causes anxiety, correct faults, and suppose in the end that 
they have finally arranged everything beautifully. In the 
meanwhile they have forgotten the main point, which is 
that psychic life is only to the smallest extent identical with 
consciousness and its sleight-of-hand tricks, while for much 
the greater part it is unconscious fact that lies there hard 
and heavy as granite, immovable and inaccessible, yet ready, 
whenever unknown laws shall dictate, to plunge down upon 
us. The gigantic catastrophes that threaten 11s are not ele- 
mental happenings of a physical or biological kind, but are 
psychic events. We are threatened in a fearful way by wars 
and revolutions that are nothing else than psychic epidem- 
ics. At any moment a few million people may be seized by 
a madness, and then we have another world war or a devas- 
tating revolution. Instead of being exposed to wild beasts, 
tumbling rocks, and inundating waters, man is exposed to- 
day to the elemental forces of his own psyche. Psychic life 
is a world-power that exceeds by many times all the powers 
of the earth. The enlightenment, which stripped nature and 


human institutions of gods, overlooked the one god of fear 
who dwells in the psyche. Fear of God is in place, if any- 
where, before the dominating power of psychic life. 

But these are all mere abstractions. Everyone knows 
that the intellect — that handy man — can put it this way 
and in quite a different way too. It is wholly a different 
matter when this objective, psychic fact, hard as granite 
and heavy as lead, confronts the individual as an inner ex- 
perience and says to him in an audible voice, “This is what 
will and must happen.” Then he feels himself called, just 
as do the social groups when a war is on, or a revolution, or 
any other madness. Not for nothing is it just our own epoch 
that calls for the liberating personality, for the one who 
distinguishes himself from the inescapable power of col- 
lectivity, thus freeing himself at least in a psychic way, and 
who lights a hopeful watchfire announcing to others that 
at least one man has succeeded in escaping from the fateful 
identity with the group soul. The fact is that the group, 
because of its unconsciousness, has no freedom of choice, so 
that, within it, psychic life works itself out like an uncon- 
trolled law of nature. There is set going a causally con- 
nected process that comes to rest only in catastrophe. The 
people always longs for a hero, a slayer of dragons, when 
it feels the danger of psychic forces; hence, the cry for per- 

But what has the single personality to do with the need 
of the many? First of all, he is a part of the people as a whole 
and as exposed to the force that moves the whole as are all 
the others. The only thing that distinguishes this person from 
all the others is his vocation. He has been called away from 
the all-powerful, all-oppressing psychic life that is his own 
and his people's affliction. If he listens to the voice, then 
he is different and isolated, for he has decided to follow the 
law that confronts him from within. His*'own” law, every- 
one will cry. He alone knows better — has to know better: 


it is the law, the vocation, as little his "own” as the lion that 
fells him, although it is undoubtedly this particular lion that 
kills him, and not any other lion. Only in'this sense can he 
speak of “his” vocation, “his” law. 

With the very decision to put his own way above all 
other ways he has already in large part fulfilled his liberating 
vocation. He has cancelled the validity of all other ways 
for himself. He has placed his law above all conventions, 
and so has shoved aside, as far as he is concerned, all those 
things that not only failed to prevent the great danger, but 
actually brought it on. For conventions are in themselves 
soulless mechanisms that can never do more than grasp the 
routine of life. Creative life is always on the yonder side of 
convention. This i$ how it comes about that, when the mere 
routine of life in the form of traditional conventions pre- 
dominates, a destructive outbreak of the creative forces must 
follow. But such an outbreak is only catastrophic as a mass 
phenomenon, and never in the individual who consciously 
subordinates himself to these higher powers and places his 
abilities at their service. The mechanism of convention keeps 
people unconscious, and then, like wild game, they can fol- 
low their customary runways without the necessity of con- 
scious choice. This unintentional effect of even the best con- 
ventions is unavoidable, and it is also a terrible danger. For 
when new conditions not provided for by the old conven- 
tions arise, then panic seizes the human being who has been 
held unconscious by routine, much as it seizes an animal, and 
with equally unpredictable results. 

But personality does not allow itself to be seized by 
the panic of those who are just awaking, for it already has 
terror behind it. It is equal to the changing conditions 
brought by time, and is unknowingly and unwillingly a 

Certainly, all human beings resemble one another, for 
otherwise they could not succumb to the same delusion; and 


the foundation of the psyche, upon which individual con- 
sciousness rests, is universally the same, beyond a doubt, for 
otherwise people could never reach a common understand- 
ing. In this sense, personality with its peculiar psychic 
make-up is itself not something absolutely unique and hap- 
pening but once. The uniqueness holds only for the indi- 
viduality of the personality, as it does for each and every 
individuality. To become a personality is not the absolute 
prerbgative of the man of genius. He may even have genius 
without either having personality or being a personality. In 
so far as every individual has his own inborn law of life, it 
is theoretically possible for every man to follow this law 
before all others and so to become a personality — that is, to 
achieve completeness. But since life can. only exist in the 
form of living units, which is to say, of individuals, the law 
of life in the last analysis always tends towards a life that 
is individually lived. Although, at bottom, one cannot con- 
ceive the objective-psychic in any other way than as an 
actuality that is universal and uniform, and although this 
means that all men share the same primary, psychic condi- 
tion, still the objective-psychic must individuate itself as 
soon as it manifests itself, for there is no way in which it 
can express itself except through the single individual. The 
only exception to this is when it seizes upon the group; but 
in that case it leads by rules of nature to a catastrophe, and 
for the simple reason that it acts only through unconscious 
channels and is not assimilated by any consciousness so as 
to be assigned its place among all the other conditions of life. 

Only the man who is able consciously to affirm the 
power of the vocation confronting him from within be- 
comes a personality; he who succumbs to it falls a prey to 
the blind flux of happening and is destroyed. The greatness 
and the liberating effect of all genuine personality consists 
in this, that it subjects itself of free choice to its vocation 
and consciously translates into its own individual reality 


what would lead only to ruin if it were lived unconsciously 
by the group. ^ 

One of the most shining examples of the life and mean- 
ing of personality that history has preserved for us is the 
life of Christ. In Christianity, which— it may be mentioned 
in passing was the only religion really persecuted by the 
Romans, there appeared a direct opponent of the Gesarean 
madness of Rome, a trait that distinguished not only the 
emperor, but every Roman as well: civis Romanus sum. 
The opposition showed itself wherever the cult of Caesar 
and Christianity clashed. But as we know from what the 
Evangelists intimate as to the psychic evolution of the per- 
sonality of Christ, this opposition also played the decisive 
role in the soul of the founder of the Christian religion. The 
story of the temptation clearly shows us with what kind of 
psychic power Jesus had collided: it was the power-devil 
of the contemporary mind that led him into serious temp- 
tation in the wilderness. This devil was the objective-psychic 
that held all the people of the Roman imperium under its 
spell; this is why it promised to Jesus also all the kingdoms 
of earth, as if it desired to make a Caesar of him. 

Following the inner voice, his vocation and his calling, 
Jesus freely exposed himself to the attack of the imperialis- 
tic delusion that filled everyone, conqueror and conquered 
alike. In this way he recognized the nature of the objective- 
psychic, which had plunged the whole world into a state of 
suffering and had prodv~ed a yearning for salvation that 
found its expression even in the heathen poets. He did not 
suppress this psychic onslaught, but consciously let it act 
upon him; nor did he allow himself to be suppressed by it, 
but assimilated it. And so world-conquering Cassarism was 
changed into a spiritual kingship, and the imperium Ro- 
manum became a universal and unworldly kingdom of God. 
While the Jewish people as a whole was expecting an im- 
perialistic and politically active hero, Jesus fulfilled the Mes- 


sianic vocation less for his nation than for the Roman world, 
and pointed out to humanity the old truth that, where force 
rules, there is no love, and where love rules, force does not 
count. The reli^'jn of love was the exact psychological coun- 
terpart to the Roman bedevilment with power. 

The example of Christianity perhaps best illustrates the 
abstract discussions I have presented above. This apparently 
unique life has become a sacred symbol because it is the 
prototype of the only meaningful life, that is, of a life that 
strives for the individual realization of its own particular 
law, such realization being absolute and unconditional. In 
this sense one may exclaim with Tertullian: anima natural- 
iter Christiana! 

The deification of Jesus as well as of Buddha is not sur- 
prising, but strikingly shows the enormous valuation that 
humanity puts upon these heroes, and so upon the ideal of 
the development of personality. Though it seems at present 
as if the blind and destructive prevalence of senseless, cbl- 
lective force would thrust the ideal of personality into the 
background, yet this is only a passing revolt against the 
ascendancy of the past. When once tradition has been suf- 
ficiently lopped off by the revolutionary, unhistorical, and 
therefore uneducated inclinations of the new generation, 
then heroes will again be sought for and found. Even Bol- 
shevism, which can hardly be surpassed in radicalism, has 
embalmed Lenin and made a saviour of Karl Marx. The 
ideal of personality is an indestructible need of the human 
soul, and it is the more fanatically defended the more un- 
suitable it is. Even the cult of Caesar was a misconstrued 
cult of personality, and modern Protestantism, whose criti- 
cal theology has brought the divinity of Christ to the van- 
ishing point, has taken its last refuge in the personality of 

Yes, what is called personality is a great and mysterious 
question. All that can be said about it is curiously unsatis- 



factory and inadequate, and there is always the threatening 
danger that the discussion will lose itself in mere talk that is 
as redundant as it is hollow. The very concept of personality 
is so vague and badly defined in common usage that hardly 
two minds will take the word in the same sense. Though I 
here propose a particular conception of it, I do not imagine 
that I have thus said the last word. I should like to consider 
everything that I say here as a mere attempt to approach 
the problem of personality, without making any claim to 
solve it. Or rather, I should like to consider my attempt as 
a description of the psychological problem of personality. 

All the usual little remedies and medicaments of psy- 
chology fall somewhat short in this connection, just as they 
do with the man of genius or the creative human being. 
Derivation from ancestral heredity and from the milieu does 
not quite succeed; inventing fictions about childhood, which 
is so popular today, ends — to put it mildly — in the inappro- 
priate; the explanation from necessity — "he had no money, 
was ill,” and so forth — remains caught in mere externali- 
ties. Something irrational, that cannot be rationalized, must 
always supervene, a deus ex machina or an asylum ignoran - 
ttce — that well-known superscription standing for God. 
Here the problem seems to extend into an extrahuman 
realm, and this, from the beginning, has been covered by 
some one of the names of God. 

As can be seen, I also have had to refer to the inner 
voice, the vocation, and to designate it as a powerful ob- 
jective-psychic element in order to characterize the way in 
which it acts in the developing personality and appears sub- 
jectively in any given case. Mephistopheles, in Faust, is not 
personified merely because this gives a better dramatic or 
theatrical effect, as though Faust moralized himself and 
painted his own devil on the wall. The first words of the 
dedication: Ihr naht Euch wieder, schwankende Gestalten 
("You draw near again, vacillating figures”) , are more than 



merely for aesthetic effect. Like the concretization of the 
devil, it is an admission of the objectivity of the psychic 
experience, a whispered confession that it happened in this 
way after all, not because of subjective wishes, fears, or 
judgements, but somehow quite of itself. Surely, only a 
blockhead would think of ghosts, and yet something like 
a primitive blockhead seems to lurk everywhere under the 
surface of reasonable, daytime consciousness. 

And so we have the eternal doubt whether what ap- 
pears to be the objective-psychic is really objective or 
whether it is imagination after all. But the question at once 
arises: have I intentionally imagined such and such, or has 
it been imagined in me? The problem is similar to that of 
the neurotic who suffers from an imaginary carcinoma. He 
knows, and he has been told a hundred times, that it is im- 
agination, and he asks me in a browbeaten way, "Yes, but 
how does it happen, then, that I imagine such a thing? Nat- 
urally I don’t want to.” The answer to this is that the idea 
of the carcinoma has imagined itself in him without his 
foreknowledge and without his permission. The basis of this 
happening is that a psychic growth, a “proliferation,” is 
taking place in his unconscious without his being able to 
make it conscious. Before this inner activity he has the sense 
of fear. But as he is entirely persuaded that within, in his 
own psyche, there cannot be anything of which he does not 
know, he must refer this fear to a physical carcinoma of 
which he knows that it does not exist. And if, in spite of 
all, he should still be afraid of it, a hundred doctors will 
confirm the view that his fear is entirely groundless. Neuro- 
sis is thus a protection against the objective, inner activity 
of the psyche; or rather, it is an attempt, somewhat dearly 
paid for, to escape from the inner voice and so from voca- 
tion. For this proliferation is the objective activity of the 
psyche, independent of conscious caprice, that wishes to 
speak to consciousness through the inner voice and so to 


guide a person to the attainment of his full stature. Behind 
the neurotic perversion is concealed vocation, destiny, the 
development of personality, the complete realization of the 
life-will that is born with the individual. The man without 
amor fati is the neurotic; he wastes himself, and is unable 
to say with Nietzsche, "A man never raises himself higher 
than when he does not know whither his destiny will still 
lead him.” 

In so far as a man is untrue to his own law and does 
not rise to personality, he has failed of the meaning of his 
life. Fortunately, in her kindness and patience, Nature has 
never put the fatal question as to the meaning of their lives 
into the mouths of most people. And where no one asks, no 
one needs to answer. 

The neurotic’s fear of carcinoma is, therefore, right; it 
is not an imagination, but the consistent expression of a 
psychic fact that exists in the extraconscious realm, inac- 
cessible to the will and the understanding. If he should go 
alone into the wilderness and listen in his isolation to the 
inner world, he might perhaps hear what the inner voice 
has to say. But as a rule the miseducated, civilized human 
being is quite incapable of perceiving the voice, which is 
not vouched for by the current doctrines. Primitives are 
qualified for this in a much higher degree; at least the medi- 
cine men are able, and are even professionally fitted, to talk 
with spirits, trees, and animals, which is to say that the 
objective-psychic, the psychic non-ego, confronts them in 
these forms. 

Because neurosis is a disturbance of the development of 
personality, we physicians of the psyche are compelled by 
professional necessity to occupy ourselves with the problem 
of personality and the inner voice, however remote it may 
seem to be. In practical psychotherapy these psychic facts, 
otherwise so vague and so often degenerated into empty 


phrases, emerge from their obscurity and are brought nearer 
to sight and knowledge. It is extremely rare, however, that 
this happens spontaneously as in the case of the Old Testa- 
ment prophets; as a rule, the psychic circumstances that 
have caused the disturbance must with effort be made con- 
scious. Yet the contents that come to light strictly corre- 
spond to the "inner voice” and have the significance of a 
fateful vocation. When this is accepted by consciousness and 
integrated, it brings about the development of personality. 

Just as great personality acts upon society to alleviate, 
liberate, transform, and heal, so the birth of personality has 
a restoring effect upon the individual. It is as if a stream 
that tvas losing itself in marshy tributaries suddenly dis- 
covered its proper bed, or as if a stone that lay upon a 
germinating seed were lifted away so that the sprout could 
begin its natural growth. 

The inner voice is the voice of a fuller life, of a wider, 
more comprehensive consciousness. That is why, in mythol- 
ogy, the birth of the hero or the symbolic rebirth coincides 
with sunrise: the development of personality is synonymous 
with an increase of awareness. For the same reason most 
heroes are characterized by solar attributes, and the mo- 
ment of the birth of their great personalities is called illumi- 


The fear that the majority of natural human beings 
feels before the inner voice is not so childish as one might 
suppose. The contents that confront a limited conscious- 
ness are in no sense harmless, as i$ shown by the classic ex- 
ample of the life of Christ, or the equally significant ex- 
perience of Mara in the legend of Buddha; as a rule, they 
spell the very danger that is specific to the individual con- 
cerned. What the inner voice brings close to us is generally 
something that is not good, but evil. This must be so, first 
of all, for the reason that we are generally not as uncon- 


scious of our virtues as of our vices, and then because we 
suffer less from the good thaii from the bad. 

As I have explained above, the inner voice brings to 
consciousness whatever the whole — whether the nation to 
which we belong or the humanity of which we are a part 
—suffers from. But it presents this evil in individual form, so 
that at first we would suppose all this evil to be only a trait 
of individual character. The inner voice brings forward what 
is evil in a temptingly convincing way, so as to make us 
succumb to it. If we do not succumb to it in part, then 
nothing of this apparent evil goes into us, and then also no 
renewal and no healing can take place. (I call the evil of the 
inner voice “apparent,” and this sounds too optimistic.) If 
the "I” completely succumbs to the inner voice, then its 
contents act as if they were so many devils, and a catastrophe 
follows. But if the "I” succumbs only in part, and if by 
self-assertion it can save itself from being completely swal- 
lowed, then it can assimilate the voice, and it is seen that 
the evil was only an evil semblance, while in reality it 
brought healing and illumination. The character of the 
inner voice is “Luciferian” in the most proper and unequiv- 
ocal sense of the word, and that is why it places a man face 
to face with final moral decisions, without which he could 
never attain consciousness and become a personality. In a 
most unaccountable way the lowest and the highest, the best 
and the most atrocious, the truest and the falsest are min- 
gled together in the inner voice, which thus opens up an 
abyss of confusion, deception, and despair. 

It is, of course, ridiculous to accuse the voice of nature, 
the all-good and the all-destroying, of evil. If it appears to 
us pre-eminently bad, this is at bottom a matter of the old 
truth that the good is always an enemy of the better. We 
would be foolish if we did not cling to the traditional good 
as long as ever possible. But as Faust says: 


When we attain the good the world presents us, 

We call the better lie and sham! 

Something good is unfortunately not eternally good, 
for otherwise there would be nothing better. If the better is 
to come, then the good must stand aside. This is why Meister 
Eckhart said, “God is not good, or else he could be better.” 

There are times in the history of the world (our own 
may be one of them) when something that is good must 
make way; what is destined to be better thus appears at first 
to be evil. This last sentence shows how dangerous it is 
even to touch upon these problems, for how easy it would 
be, according to this, for evil to smuggle itself in by simply 
explaining that it is the potentially better! The problems 
of the inner voice are full of hidden pits and snares. It is a 
most dangerous and slippery region, just as dangerous and 
devious as life itself when it rejects the aid of handrails. But 
whoever is unable to lose his life by the same token will never 
gain it. The birth of the hero and the heroic life are always 
threatened. Typical examples are the serpents of Hera that 
threaten the infant Heracles; Python, who wishes to destroy 
the light god Apollo at birth; and the slaying of the first- 
born in Bethlehem. The development of personality is a 
wager, and it is tragic that the demon of the inner voice 
should spell greatest danger and indispensable help at the 
same time. It is tragic, but logical. It is artlessly so. 

May we, therefore, be thankful to humanity, to all the 
well-meaning shepherds of the flock, and to all the anxious 
fathers of the hosts of children, when they erect protective 
walls, set up efficacious pictures, and recommend passable 
roads that sinuously wind around the abysses? 

When all is said and done, the hero, leader, and saviour 
is also the one who discovers a new way to greater certainty. 
Everything could be left as it was if this new way did not 
absolutely demand to be discovered, and did not visit hu- 


manity with all the plagues of Egypt until it is found. The 
undiscovered way in us is like something of the psyche that 
is alive. The classic Chinese philosophy calls it “Tao,” and 
compares it to a watercourse that resistlessly moves towards 
its goal. To be in Tao means fulfilment, wholeness, a voca- 
tion performed, beginning and end and complete realization 
of the meaning of existence innate in things. Personality is 


1. From Goethe’s West-Oestlicher Divan , Buck Suleika. Although the verses in* 
question are generally quoted as a pronouncement of the poet, he has put them in the 
mouth of Suleika and makes Hatem reply: 

May well be! So they suppose; 

But I am on another track: 

All the joys of earth I find 

United in Suleika’s self. [Translator’s note] 

2. This chapter was originally given as a lecture entitled Die Stimme des Innern 
at the Kulturbund, Vienna, in November, 1932. Since then Germany, too, has found 
its leader. 

Books by Dr. Carl G. Jung Available in English 

Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology. London: Bail- 
Here, Tindall and Cox, 1916; New York: Moffat, Yard 
and Company, 1917. 

Contributions to Analytical Psychology. New York: Har- 
court, Brace and Company, 1928. 

' Modern Man in Search of a Soul. New York: Harcourt, 
Brace and Company, 1933; London: Kegan Paul, 
Trench, Trubner & Co., Ltd., 1933. 

Psychological Types. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Com- 
pany, 1933; London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & 
Co., Ltd., 1923. 

Psychology and Religion. New Haven: Yale University 
Press, 1938; London: H. Milford, Oxford University 
Press, 1938. 

The Psychology of Dementia Prcecox. New York: Nervous 
and Mental Disease Publishing Company, 1936. 
f Psychology of the Unconscious. New York: Moffat, Yard 
and Company, 1916; Dodd, Mead & Company, 1931. 

Studies in Word- Association. London: W. Heinemann, Ltd., 

The Theory of Psychoanalysis. New York: Nervous and 
Mental Disease Publishing Company, 1915. 

Two Essays on Analytical Psychology. New York: Dodd, 
Mead & Company, 1928. 

With Richard Wilhelm 

The Secret of the Golden Flower. ,New York: Harcourt, 
Brace and Company, 1931; London: George Routledge 
and Company, 1931. 




Abtala Jurain, treatise of 1732, 213-213 
Ace of clubs, 1 66; as a dream symbol, 117 
Aesculapius, 174, 292 
Agathodaimon, 192 
Albertus Magnus, 247 
Alchemistic images, traditional, 89 
Alchemists, real nature of matter unknown 
to, 212; solitary character of, 237 
Alchemy, 27; as exemplar of individual- 
ism, 28; Taoist, 50; basic concept of, 
203; amplification method in, 207; es- 
sential points of, 208; psychic processes 
of, 210; heterogeneous currents in, 21 x; 
"projections” in, 2x2; psychic nature of, 
21 6; meditatio in, 220; physical and 
psychic intermixed in, 222; conception 
of opposites in, 241; in relation to 
Christian doctrine, 230, 231; importance 
in Middle Ages, 269; science and mys- 
ticism in, 268; projection of psychic 
material in, 269; as aid to study of un- 
conscious, 273 
Alfidus, 217 
Ambrosius, 234, 236 

America, attitude towards intellect in, 1x3 
Amitabha* 128 

Amplification, in dream interpretation, 207 
Ancestral psychical conditions, ^4 3 
Ancestral spirits, in primitive rites, 14 6 
Angelus Silesius, 39 

Aniraa, 22, 1x4, 223; definition of, 19; in 
mythology and legend, 73 ; one aspect of 
the unconscious, 76; various projections 
of, 79; as chaotic life-urge, 80; as rep- 
resenting the inferior function, 136 
Animal symbolism, 147 
Animus, the, defined, 19 
Anthropos, or God-man, 23P, 231, 233 
Antimony, 240 

Ape, as dream symbol, 133, i7S> l 9* 
Apuleius, 82, 107 

Archetypes, anima and animus natural, 23; 
in collective unconscious, 30; as con- 

tents of the same, 33; myth and fable 
as » 53> J4J dogmatic, in Catholic ritual, 
60; of meaning, 82; the "old wise man”, 
87, 88; of transformation, 89; remedial, 

Archytas, 240 

Asiatic cults, imported by Romans, 61 
Astrology, 33, 213 

Atman, personal and superpersonal, in 
Upanishad, 133 

Augustine, St., 33, 101, 247, 264 
Avalokiteshvara, 128 
Aztecs, 173 


Ball, as dream symbol, 137, 138 
Bardesanes, 67 

Basilius Valentinus, 21 x, 243, 247 
Benoit, Pierre, 78, 80, 221 
Bernhardus Trevisanus, 206 
Bernoulli, Prof., 89, 197, 208 
Beya, in Visio Arislei, 24X-244 
Bhagavad-Gita, 140 
Black Mass, 92, 133 
Blue flower, as dream symbol, 163 
Bodhisattva, 143 

Boehme. Jacob, 39, io6 t 232, 268 
Bolshevism, 298 

Brahma *on world-mountain Meru, 134 
Buddha, X28, 145 
Buddhism, 24 


Cabasilas, 237 

Cabiri, *82, 190; creative dwarf gods in 
Faust , 160, 162 

Caesarism, effect of Christianity on, 297 
Carbon, 198 
Carus, C G., 3, 3* 

Caussinus, Jesuit, 246, 247 
Cave, as dream symbol, 138 
Central Australia, natives of, 14 6 
Centre, as dream symbol, 168, 1695 as 
totality of psychic being, 1915 properties 
of the unknowable, 197 




Cerebro-spinal system, 68 
Chakras, 89 

Chaos, 240; as materia prime , 245 
Chemistry, 20;; modern, 209; alchemy as 
precursor of, 2x0 
Chidher, 140, 14 1 

Child psychology, modern devotion to 
study of; 282, 284 0 

Childhood, 109-ixx; persistence of feel- 
ings of, xxx; in relation to adult influ- 
ence, 139 

Children, opposed views as to training, 283 
Chinese philosophy, 57 
Christ, 232, 234; personality of, 297; 
psychic evolution of, 297; Messianic vo- 
cation of, 298 

Christian cross, as dream symbol, 94 
Christian Middle Ages, scholastic intellect 
in, 123 

Christian symbolism, loss of, 63 
Christian Trinity, 167 
Christianity, modern mentality preformed 
by, ij j; as direct opponent of Caesar- 
isxn, 297 

Christophorus of Paris, 245 
Circle, in ancient magic, 106; as dream 
symbol, 131, 167, 171 • 

Clock, as dream symbol, 132; as represent- 
ing immortality, 175 
Codex Brucianus, 134 
Cognition, certain things inaccessible to, 

Coins, as dream symbols, 119 
Collective unconscious, 24; archetypes of 
the, 52-95; underlying the personal, 52, 
53; in relation to dogma, 60 
Collectivism, in Mediaeval Church, 271 
Common sense, 9 
Complexes, psychology of, 79 
Conscious mind, basis of, 13; antiquity 
of, 25 

Conscious and unconscious, conflict of, 27 
Consciousness, defined, 3; not whole of the 
psyche, 4; dangers to, 12; arbitrariness 
of, 99; attitudes of, 176$ egocentric if 
inflated, 274 

Convention, a collective necessity, 290; 

danger of its predominance, 295 
Corpus Hermeticum , 208 
Crystals, as dream symbols, z 67 


Dactyls, dwarf gods of invention, 161. 
See also Cabiri 

Dante's Paradho, 170 

Day-dreams, X03 

Democritus, 211, 228 

Desert places, as abode of devils, 104* 

Devil, the, 69 

Diamond, as dream symbol, 167, x68, 182 
"Diamond body," in Chinese alchemy, 266 
Digullcville, Guillaume de, “Pllerinages” 
of, 192-195 

Dionysiac satyr-play, 125 
Dionysus, 125, 150, 233 
Dogma, 60; protection by, 115 
Dogmatic symbol, uses of, 59 
Dorje, the, symbol of all divine powers, 
128, 134 

Dragon, as alchemistic symbol, 22 6, 22 7 
Dream symbols,, of individuation, 96-204 
Dreams, 25, x 6; no systematization in, 5; 
deduction from procedure, 98; objective 
psychic content of, 98; no general 
theory of, 98; context of study of con- 
tents, 99; rarity of "parallel,” xoo; un- 
known quality of, 100; conjecture in 
interpreting, 101; historical analogies to 
initiation rites, 107; mandala symbolism 
in, 130 

Dual personality, 4 
Dyad, duality of evil and matter, 232 

Eagle, as dream symbol, 189 
Earthiness, necessary to growth, 138 
Earth -square, Chinese, 145 
Easter, 253; rite of hallowing fixe at, 251 
Eckhardt, Meister 

Ego, 4, 5; the normal, 6; influenced by 
insane ideas, 7; born in the conscious 
mind, 13; as a centre of consciousness, 
x 5 ; in relation to the unconscious, x 5 
Ego-centre, 13 
Ego-consciousness, 24 
Eleusinian mysteries, 121 
Elgonyi tribe, 66 

Elixirs of the Devil, The, by Hoffmann, 

Emotion, an instinctive, involuntary reac- 
tion, xo; in relation to personality, 19; 
loss of consciousness in, 20 
Emotional factors, force of, 10 
Empedocles, 240 

Enantiodromia, a play of opposites, xai 
Enigma Regis, 135 
Epidaurus, serpent of, 291 
Erskine, John, 78 
Excommunication, 1x4, 1x5 




Fantasies, psychic activity undifferentiated 
in, 42 

Father, as symbolising traditional spirit, 
104; as representing collective conscious- 
ness, 1 13; as dream symbol, 142 
Father-Son, Christian formula, 59 
Faust, Goethe's, 20, 37, 38, 121, ^3, 299; 

alchemistic thought in, 271-273 
Feeling-toned complexes, in personal un- 
conscious, 53 

Fire magic, the Loki theme, 187 
Firmicus Maternus, 108 
Flaubert, Gustave, 104 
Flournoy, Theodore, 4 
Flue, Nicholas von der, his vision of 
"three folded ness,** 38, 59 
Fans signatus , 1x3 

"Fourness," as totality of psychic struc- 
ture, 41 

France, in eleventh century, 92 

Frazer, Ronald, 23 

Freud, Sigmund, 4, j, 32, 79, 287 


Garden of Eden, 85 

Geber, classicist, 206, 217 

Gebrina Sphinx, 206 

Genes, masculine and feminine, 77 

Genius, in relation to the unconscious, 43 

Gerardus Dorneus, 48 

Ghosts, 22 

Globe, as dream symbol, 122 
Gnostic hymn of Bardesanes, 67 
Gnosticism, parallel to symbols of indi- 
viduation, 28; study of types, 7$; con- 
cepts of personality, 133 
God, direct experience of, 59; metaphysical 
concept of, 223 

Godhead, Christian, the Trinity, 156 
Gods, decay of Greek and Roman, 62$ 
today represented as "factors," 71 
Goethe, 37; sentient nature of, 161 
Gold, in alchemy, actual and allegorical, 
49; analogy of sun to, 117 
Golden Ass, The, of Apuleius, xo8 
Golden Fleece, The, 162 
"Golden pill,” of Taoists, 173 
"Golden seed,** in Indian religion, 176 
Golem, The, by Gustav Meyrink, 119 
Graeco-Roman mysteries, 60 
Groups, mental epidemics in, 9; without 
freedom of choice, 294 


Haggard, Rider, 22, 78, 80 
Hagia Soph&a, 148, 131 
Hallucinations, 104 
Hamlet, xax 

Happiness, no objective criterion for, X54 
Hartmann, E. von, 3, 32 
Helen of Troy, by John Erskine, 78 
Helios, early worship of, 264 
Heraclitus, 48, 64; the "dark one,” 188; 

"ever-living fire” of, 83, 14X, 188 
Hercules, 233 

Hermes Trismegistus, 88, xi8, 207 
Hermetic philosophy, 206; not contradic- 
tory to Christianity, 238, 239 
Hermetic vessel, 209, 221 
Herodotus, X2X 

Heroes, solar attributes of, 302 
Hinayana, form of Buddhism, 189 
Hipparchus of Alexandria, 33 
Hoffmann, E. T. A., 20 
Hoghelande, Theobald van, 213 
Holy Ghost, femininity problem regarding, 
x 56, 137; as fire, as old man, 246 
Holy Grail, 73, 181 
Hormones, 18 
Hortulanus, 240 

Horus, mediaeval symbolism regarding, 

Hunt and Grenfell, edition A6yu>p Iipav, 


Huss, Johann, xx 


Ideas, 82; historical antecedents of, 83 
Ignatius Loyola, Exercitium of, 144 
Imagination, physical aspect of, 22 x; im- 
portance in alchemy, 223 
Indian religions, 37 

Individuation, a psychological process, 3; 
not automatic, 32; case-history, 3 *‘3®; 
bearing of alchemistic writings on, 116; 
realization of selfhood in, 143; uncon- 
scious centralizing process, 276; of the 
objective-psychic, 2 96 
Inflation, paradox of, 274 
Inner voice, see Vocation 
Insanity, inaccessible ideas of, 7; hidden 
but existent, 8; in relation to the un- 
conscious, 42, 43 

Instinct, as creative source of order, X15 
Intellect, 103; in relation to soul, 6 3; 
much abused, 1261 problems of, 126 



Intro jection, 74 
Intuition, its dependence on the uncon^ 
scious, 14 

Ishvara (Shiva), 158 
Isia, 248 

Islam, tradition of culture within, 254 


Janet, Pierre, 4, 3 
Julian the Apostate, 117 
Johannes Grasseus, 243 


Kant, Immanuel, 176 
Khalid ben Yezid, 2x8 
Khunrath, Heinrich, 252 
Kien, Chinese heaven, 14 3 
Kierkegaard, 57 

Kingsley, Charles, author of Hypatia, 23 
Krater, the divine baptismal font, 229 
Kundalini yoga, 132, 158 


Ladder, in Egyptian burial, 107; as dream 
symbol, xo8 

Lamaism, magic circle of, X27; significance 
of mandala in* 175 
Laotse, 30, 31, 32 
Lenin, Nikolai, 298 
Lcssius, Jesuit, 23 3 
L6vy-Bruhl, 53 
Libido, iay 

Life, good and evil categories of, 77 
"Life mass," 173; transformation of, xya 
Lonetto, Litany of x8o 
Lully, Raymond, 233 < 

Lunatics, overcome by the unconscious, 8 


Mactation, 233 

Mahayana, form of Buddhism, 127, 189 
Majer, Dr. Michael, 106, 243, 246, 248 
Man and woman, as incompatible opposi- 
tion, 136 

Mandala, magic circle, y8, 39, 97, X02, 
127, 130; a symbol of individuation, 
89; ceremonial importance of, 128; as a 
nuclear atom, 178; three-dimensional, 
1905 tfue symbolism of, 192; historical 
aspects, 201 

Marsilio Ficino, 20 7 
Marcion the Agnostic, 129 
Marx, Karl, 298 
Mass, the, 234-237 
Medicine men, primitive, 87, ^92 
Melchior, Nicholas, on alchemy as a form 
of Mass, 299-262 
Memory,, 1 4 

Men, femininity in old, 18 
Meyrink Gustav, author of The Golem, 

Mirror, as dream symbol, 137, 138 
Mithras, 191 
Monad, 134, 133 
Monogenes, X34, 139 
Moods, x8, 19 

Morality, current, in relation to life, 77 
Morienus, 2x8 
Moses, in the Koran, 140 
Mother, as symbol of the collective un- 
conscious, 1 13 
Mythology, 24, 302 
Myths, 33, 94 


Negroes, American, 62; Central Austral- 
ian, 92 
Nekuia, 190 

Neo-Platonic philosophy, 122, 123 
Neo-Pythagorean philosophy, 230, 240 
Nereids, 160-162 

Neurosis, 300, 301; mentality basically 
normal in, 8 
Neurotic complex, 7 
New Testament, 87 

Nietzsche, 67, 83, 88, 120, 129, 192, 160, 

Nixies, 73. 74. 71 
"Normal insanity," 10 
Nuclear processes, in the objective psyche, 

Numen, 77, 187; as a psychic entity, 1 771 
important in symbol formation, 276 
Nymphs, 124 


Objective psyche, high independence of, 
xox; eternal doubt regarding, 300 
"Old wise man," a mana personality, 127 
Orpheus, 233 

Orthelius, the "two treasures" of, 266 


Osirit, 192, 248 

Ostanes, 252; his relation to Democritus, 


Padma, the lotus, Indian symbol, 155 
Pali-canon, 26 
Panic, 9 

Paracelsus, 215, 268 
Patrizzi, humanist, 258 
Peacock, as alchemistic symbol, 48; as 
Christian symbol, 264 
Persecution, issue of mistrust, 104 
Personal unconscious, a superficial layer, 52 
Personalities, historical, 290 
Personality, 13; in relation to the uncon- 
scious, xfi; can be dormant, 17; unified, 
needed for life-experience, 120; develop- 
ment of, 281-305; desire for, a real 
problem, 281; in relation to child edu- 
cation, 283, 284; as a germ in the child, 
285; required by educators, 286; re- 
vealed by actions, 287; conservatism of 
human, 288; difficulty of rationalizing, 
299; psychological problem, 299; in re- 
lation to neuroses, 300, 301; its effect 
on the individual, 302; as Tao, 303 
Personification, 107, 166 
Peterhof, Zurich, 132 
Petronius Arbiter, 1 66 
Petrus Bonus of Ferrara, 254, 2 56 
Philalethes, 220 
Philemon and Baucis, 273 
Philosopher’s Stone, 46, 118, 209, 2 67; 

directions for making, 145 
Phoenix, as Christian symbol, 265 
Plato, 46, 2 56; his idea-concept, 82 
Pointed beard, man with, as dream symbol, 
X12; as Mephistopheles, 1x3 
Polifilo’s Ipnerotomacbia, 78, 123 
Possession, state of, 71 
Prince, Morton, 4 

Projection, 230; in the primitive, 74; 

Christian and Pagan, 232, 233 
Protestant Church, remnants of the, 64 
Protestantism, disintegration of, 61; icono- 
clasm of, fix; its desymbolized world, 
79; moral conflict in, 8fi; and the per- 
sonality of Christ, 298 
Psyche, primitive images of the, jfi; au- 
tonomy of, 1 33; creative power of, 178 
Psychic isolation, 103, 104 
Psychic life, as greatest world power, 203 
Psychology, present enthusiasm for, 293 


Psychosis, conditions of, 7; defined, 90 
Psychotherapy, 30 x 

Pueblo Indians, Taos, 62; ritual identifi- 
cation with sun, X4fi; significance of 
mandala among, 173 
Pythagoras, 249, 255 


Quicksilver, in alchemy, 227, 228; its 
identity with mind, 4 fi; as the divine 
water, 209 

Quintessence ( astrum ), 222 


Rationalism, 23 

Raymundus, his recipe for making the 
lapis, 167 

Redemption, in alchemy, 205-280. See also 

Reformation, the, 11; iconoclasm of, fio 
Religion, 57, 58, x8fi 
Religious symbols, nature of, 144 
Renaissance, the, classical trend in, 78, 123 
Repression of the conscious, 13 
“Right” and “left” as symbols, 144, 169, 

Ripley, Sir George, English alchemist, 239, 
240, 246, 262-266 

Romantics, “blue flower” of the, 117, 118 
Rosarium , the, anonymous mediaeval text, 
xx8, 136, 145, 154* 173 * ll6 ‘> on 
alchemistic gold, 163 
Rose, as dream symbol, 171 
Rose cross (Rosicrucian), 117 
Roland’s Lexicon Alchemiae , 220, 221 
Ruska’s Tabula Smagdarina and Turba , 
ay 4 


Sachseln, 58 
Salt, in alchemy, 2x6 
Samadhi, an ecstatic state, 25 
Satan, cult of, 92 
Scheme of functions, 133 
Schiller, Friedrich, 159, 281; as educator, 

Schizophrenia, 25 
Schopenhauer, 138 
Schur*, Edouard, 23 

Sea, as symbol of collective unconscious, 

Secret stone, the, 255, ajfi 



Self, the totality of the psyche, 96; as a 
delimiting concept, 176; integration of 
the, 187 

Senior, early alchemist, 217 
Serpent, as alchemistic symbol, 482 as 
dream symbol, i)i, iji, iya, 154 
Serpent of healing ( Aesculapian) , 174 
Setheos, 134 

Seven, transformation symbolized by the 
number, 1x7 

Sex, 17, x8; biological elements in, 18 
Sexuality, 79 

Shadow, the, 20, 22, 91; as archetype, 88; 

as negative ego-personality, 173 
Shakti, 128 

Shaw, Bernard, 148; his Saint Joan , 187 

Shiva, 128, 145 

Shiva bindu, 174 

Silberer,. Herbert, 28, 208 

Skull, as dream symbol, 121 

Sloane, William, 22 

Socrates, 292 

Solificatio, in alchemy, 108, 109 
Soul, 223; the anima as, 73; in relation to 
sphere, 122; devoured by matter, 230 
Spitteler’s Prometheus and Epimetheus, 
1 19, 142, 268 

Square, as dream symbol, 143, 131, 164, 
1 $9, 184-186; in Eastern symbolism, 

Squaring of the circle, x 63 
Stoics, 83 
“Strangeness,” 21 
Stupa, in Lamaic dogma, 143 
Subconscious, the, 68 
Sublimation, or ascent, 107 
Sun, as dream symbol, 122 
Sun symbol, Egyptian, 264 , 

Superstitions, primitive, 9 
Swedenborg, Emmanuel, 47 
Swedenborgianism, 47 
Symbolic process, defined, 89; condition 
for the, 90 

Symbolism, natural dream illustration, 66 
Symbols, positive and negative, 90 
Sympathetic system, 70 
Symposium , of Plato, 46 
Syncretism, Graeco-Roman, 123 


Taboo, 120 

Tantric yoga, 89, 127, 174, 175; signifi- 
cance of mandats to, 173 
Too Ti Ching, by Laotse, 30, 31 
Taoist philosophy, 37, 175 

Taos pueblo, 71 

Technical progress, dangers of, xo; in rela- 
tion to psychology, 9, xo 
Tele^horos, Cabir of Aesculapius, 292 
Temenos, region of taboo, 120, 132 
Tertullian, 247, 298 

Thabritius, masculine principle of light, 
in Visio Arislei , 241 
Thales, 163 

Theatrum Cbemicum , 2x3 
Theosophy, 63 

Thomas Aquinas, on the Mass, 234 
Thoth, 88 

Thought, antedates ego-consciousness, 83; 

audibility of, 104 
Timaeus , of Plato, 46 
Tractatus Aureus, 133, 167, 233, 234 
Transformation, 89, 91; symbols of, 93- 
93; animal symbols, 93, 94; geometric, 
94; intermediate, 94; through transmu- 
tation, xi6; of gold, symbolic, 116 
Treasure, as dream symbol, 139, 140 
Tribal teaching, 36 
Trinity, the, 64 
Trithcmius, Abbot, 213 
Tritons, 160-162 


Unconscious, the, 3, 4, ix; chaotic phe- 
nomena of, 3; as cosmic principle, 3; 
strange contents of, 6; its autonomy 
not necessarily insanity, 8; our attitude 
toward, 1 x ; mother of consciousness, 
12; powerful autonomy of, 12; relation 
of ego to, 13, 14; contains dormant 
personality, 17; general belief regarding, 
69; not a capsulated system, 70; in 
primitive man, 70, 71; secret life in, 
72; a question of life, revelation by 
dream interpretation, 83-87; relativity 
of moral opposites, 87; interfused with 
consciousness, 91; modern attitude to- 
ward, X03; correlation with the con- 
scidus, X03; resisted by the conscious, 
X03; civilized fear of, 103; autonomous 
principle, 133; primeval instincts in, 
x6x; personal, 172; personified, 172; 
confused with subconscious, 2x4; in re- 
lation to alchemy, 220; identity of op- 
posites in, 223; study aided by alche- 
mis tic conceptions, 273 
“Unknown woman,” frequent appearance 
in dreams, X07 
Upanishads, 86, 133 




Visio Arislei , 221, 241-245, 249 
Visions, suggesting consciousness within 
unconscious, 1 5 

Vocation, an irrational factor, 291; orig- 
inal meaning, 292; collective necessities 
replace, 292; must be consciously af- 
firmed, 296; the inner voice, 299, 501, 


Voice, as dream symbol, 124 
Voluspi, 72 


Waite, Arthur E., 252 • 

Waldkirch, Conrad, printer, 257 
Walpurgis Night, 126 
War, as dream symbol, 157 
Watch, as dream symbol, 13 1 
Water, as psychic symbol, 66; most com- 
mon symbol of unconscious, 67, 6 8; in 
mythology, 73; dream-significance, 113, 
114, alchemistic synonyms for, nj; as 
dream symbol, 142; as quicksilver in 
alchemy, 209; as materia prima, 240 

M^ater of life, 184 
Water dragon (Taoist), 68 
Wheel, as dream symbol, 158, 164 
Wilhelm, Richard, 97, 128 
Witches, 22 

Woman, unknown, as dream symbol, xax 
Women, masculinity in old, 18 
World-clock, as dream symbol, 189, 190, 

World-spirit, 267 
World War, 274 


Yantra, a transitional point, 14 5 
Yoga, 120, 245; Chinese, 89 
Yogasutra, 26 
Yogis, 26 


Zarathustra, by Nietzsche, 67, 88, 132, 
160, 228 

Zodiac, psychological qualities of the, 213 
Zosimus, third century Gnostic, 227, 229, 

Zurich, divorce in, 79